Day of Reckoning
by CaitlynNichols
Summary: When Deacon Frost returns from the dead, he and his familiars go on the hunt to find his missing documents from the ritual; Chanel, the one being hunted down, is rescued by Blade who she agrees to help Blade until she is held captive under Deacon's power.
1. 1: EMERGE

**DAY OF RECKONING **

By Caitlyn

A fan fiction story dedicated to my close friends from VS2 for making me motivated about my pursuing writing career. This story is for you pals!

As an inspired writer (hopefully one day), sometimes authors get things out of hand and come up with something that might be completely off topic to a story currently in progress stage. Here is a story I came up with and decided to write it down so I could get some of the ideas and details out of my head while I worked on the story I am thinking of publishing.

**DISCLAIMER:** Some of the characters from the movie _Blade_ are used in the story; I did not steal them nor are they in my property, but may I keep Deacon as my boyfriend? Chanel and a few other characters are made up by me, so please do not take them.

* * *

_Society honors its living conformists and its dead troublemakers. -_Mignon McLaughlin

**1: Emerge**

There was little sight for the young woman to arise from the floor, her eyes were weak, and the lack of vision didn't help her identify the place she was in. Her platinum blonde hair covered her bloody face of deep gashes seeping crimson blood into her chapped mouth. She tasted the thick liquid, and immediately the taste was desirable. It was something she had never tasted in a long time; however, she wasn't too sure how long it had been since she last tasted the blood. For sure it was too long.

She coughed, hard enough to spew out the blood she recently consumed. Spattered all over the floor she covered her mouth to avoid throwing up the blood again, she didn't want the taste to disperse. Her hair shield her pale blue eyes, scanning the place in awe, wondering where her exact location might be. She pushed her bangs out of her face and focused on one spot of the area where a pile of black ashes stood in the middle of a stone platform. Astonished, there were more ash piles scattered everywhere once she was able to see a clear vision of the place—what the heck happened? she mused.

She keeled down and pushed herself up from the floor, her knees trembled, and she grabbed onto the rusted stone wall from falling that was coved in silky webs. The room was silent, silent wasn't one of her favorite things when alone in a room. She needed noise. She moaned from the pain stabbing her back, her knees were tender to the touch, bloody scrapes on her hands that was now completely dry. She leaned against the cold wall and sighed, relieved as the cold feeling chilled her spine from the warm tenderness her back was going through.

All at once, her breath stopped. She recognized the place—the temple where the tempestuous man whom she captured for the ritual killed her love, the man she thought she would be his partner until the day they would both rule the impetuous world. However, it never happened. And she was now to deal with a broken heart alone? Her heart, which never made a beat, felt like her love was now long gone, and to be alone meant nothing other than to die and go where her love was nestled. Hell or Heaven.

The chattered pieces of stone crumbled on her shoulders, she dusted them off and staggered towards the center where the platform was. Engraved in that platform was the glyph that symbolized her love, memories were brought back as she traced the glyph with her scraped hand. She felt light hearted inside now that she miraculously was living again. It questioned her though why all at once she would come back. Did the ritual work like her love had said? Or was it something else she would have never expected? There was no reason to doubt that her love was right, that the ritual would make all immortals live for eternity. But why would there be ashes on the floor that are the left over remains of dead creatures like her? She pondered it over for a moment until she came up with one reasonable answer. Maybe she survived because he imprinted on her to be one of the surviving people who interacted with the ritual. If so, he would have imprinted on more people, close friends or familiars.

A scattering noise emerged from behind her back, she stuttered and spun around to see what was making the noise. At the very end of the room was a man, his face was bloody like hers, except his eyes were covered with shattered sunglasses. His orange hair was disheveled, dirty, and long that his hair reached down his shoulders. He pushed himself away from the stone pillar and murmured out loud, "Mercury?"

She could not believe what was happening, but was happy that the results were gratifying. "Quinn? Are you okay?"

Quinn stumbled towards her and he tripped on his feet, falling onto his knees as she hovered him. He looked up. "Not at the moment, but I may recover within a few hours." He licked his lips. "Are you okay yourself?"

She shook her head and changed the subject, worried. "Where is he?"

"You mean Deac-"

"Yes!" She exclaimed, "Where is he?"

Quinn threw out his arms and pushed himself up, grabbing onto her elbows. "How should I know where he is? I didn't witness the fight he had with that...that daywalker son of a bitch."

"We need to find him and see if he's alive!" She chirped, and ran for the outer edge of the platform, where a leading stair case lead to a hallway with candles hung from the ceiling. She trembled as she ran for the hallway until a moaning sound ran through the temple. It was loud and it echoed like the inside of a cave. It had to be him; he must have survived.

"Deac!" She yelled, running faster towards the area she heard the moan.

Quinn slumped and followed Mercury, wailing, "Wait up. You know I'm a lot slower than your average girl speed."

Ignoring him, Mercury dashed through the tall pillars that were aligned with the walls and followed the moaning sound of a man who seemed to be calling for help. At the end, she felt tired, but motivated to find him. And she did.

"Frost! She yelled.

Near the entrance to the grand staircase that lead to the upper floor of the temple was a man hunched over, his back stripped from clothing and revealed deep scratch marks that covered his entire back. His accent reminded Mercury of a python, an angry by worn out python, who was struggling to survive. Once she caught sight of him, he bulged a loud cough and slouched on the hard, stone cold floor. His head flagged up when he saw the young beautiful woman astonished by his miraculous survival. She ran over for him, grabbed his back, and let him rest in her arms. She nibbled on the lower half of her lip, amazed that her love was alive after all.

"Frost! You're alive!" Warm tears sheared out of her eyes. She held him tight in a huge hug, digging her head into his chest, sobbing hard enough to make him jerk out of her grasp.

His throat was dry as he spoke. "M-Merc-Mercury?"

"Yes, my love," She said pleasantly. "It's me. I'm alive."

"Wha...the fu...are you talkin...about?"

"Don't be silly," She warned, adding a light accent to her tone. "You know that you are my only love."

His eyes slowly opened, but his voice was still crackly. He sighed. "I've got no girl to pass by with. You might as well change the subject."

Mercury rolled her eyes and continued to squeeze him tight in her arms. "I guess so," she said, convinced. "Did the ritual work after all if we are still alive?"

Quinn, who was slowly crawling on his knees from back pain, reached out for Deacon by grasping onto Mercury's foot. He haltered himself forward and leaned over Mercury; me smiled at the man who he considered as a close friend. He couldn't believe it either that his friend survived the fight and the ritual itself—the daywalker was too tough to beat unless you were known as La Magra, then there would have been a difference within the fight.

He examined Deacon's chest and noticed the stab wound and tiny red dots. Something must have happened if he were badly defeated. He stood up and heard a crunching sound of glass underneath his boot. He looked down and saw the shattered pieces of a broken vile, leaking out a clear blue fluid which looked poisonous than a healthy dose of blood he would have normally taken.

"What is this?" Quinn questioned the weak mean, picked up the vile, and held it in front of his face.

Deacon bulged away from the vile. "Don't remind me, please? I've had enough for once."

"So did it work or not?" Mercury reminded Deacon again.

"Yes, for crying out loud. Shut your fuckin' mouth or else I'll rip that tongue of yours." He groaned loudly, and released her grip from his arms. He threw her hands aside when she hesitated to hold him again. Then, he continued to ask unusual questions about the current date. "What year is it? Or what day or whatsoever century we might be in?"

Mercury maneuvered away from him and thought over the question. "Honestly, I have no idea."

"Damn it."

She turned towards Quinn and grabbed his wrist, which had a wristwatch on it. "Check to see what today date is it."

Quinn took his watch and examined the year and date. His face scrutinized for a while until it suddenly changed when he handed over the watch to Mercury slowly. His eyes were surprised. "It's July 30, 2008."

"What the hell? Are you serious?" She yelled loudly, and grabbed the watch from his wrist.

Deacon's hand flashed out and took away the watch, his teeth grinning together. "Are you saying we have been dead for eleven fuckin' years?"

"The evidence proves it," Quinn answered. "Fuck! It doesn't feel like it has been eleven years."

"That's because we have been dead, dumbass! Damn, you are so fuckin' stupid." Deacon shouted and rubbed his temple.

Quinn threw his hands in the air and circled around Deacon, and turned his eyes away, provoked that it had been eleven years since he had seen the day of life. He felt the same as usual: claustrophobic about every part of his body burnt to ashes from fire or that thing the daywalker used; his military capability strength was normal; his attitude, he felt perfectly fine though dead for a long time. He just felt fresher—reborn in another way, as if his body cleansed the old memories and ready for the new ones. That is, if he planned to make new memories or just wanted to have the same stimulant life style again by smoking, drinking, and catching humans for a brawl load of fun—consuming blood like a slob. His hands trembled on the broken vile and he thrashed it at the wall, the vile shattered into tiny diamonds.

"Well," he assumed, and looked down at his watch. "It's 11:42 at night, so we might as well get out of here before someone finds this place active."

"But where?" Mercury asked. "The penthouse is a total mess? We can't go back there, what if he's locked the place down or burnt it to the ground."

Deacon lifted an eyebrow and bent down before Mercury; cupping her hands into a ball and he caressed her injured cheekbone. "The Porsche is still out back of this temple. We can take it from there and find a new location to set up. But before we even do that, we need to get back to the penthouse and get the file."

There was doubt in Mercury that this was a possible solution. "Okay, I guess that could work. But where exactly would be our new location?"

"Think of someplace small, easily hidden, something or somewhere where no person would ever look?" His fingers tapped on her elbow, causing Mercury to react cliquishly, goose bumps raised on her elbow.

"Anything you want, boss." Quinn replied.

- - - - -

A black Porsche pulled up to the curb of the road and turned towards a street that was dark, and was guarded by a rusted metal fence with a signed picketed on the metal door 'Private Property. Do not Enter.'

Deacon got out of the car, slid the metal gates open, and drove inside the boundary line where the penthouse he used to stay at was still in great shape. Rather surprised that it hadn't been knocked down, he felt little hope that his laptop would be there. He needed it badly so that he could check to see if the files were still on—if so, his next plan would go into active mode. Though he didn't know what would be coming he knew there was a way out of this situation; he had been dead for eleven years for crying out loud, his familiars might have forgotten about him. If so, his new plan would end up in trash. There had to be another way…

The car drove into the cemented plastered garage and came to a stall when Quinn and Mercury exited the back of the car. Deacon shut the door behind and twirled the car keys between his fingers.

"Hopefully the elevator still works," he said.

They walked up towards the elevator door and Deacon pushed the up button, a light ping sound was hard and he smiled. As always, being dominate was his major prior to being an idol, so he entered into the elevator first and let the two rascals wait. Quinn and Mercury sighed and entered into the elevator after Deacon pushed the elevator button to floor 16 of the building. It was a quick way up and by the time Quinn evoked Mercury to being irritated, the doors opened to a marble room filled with darkness as they exited the building. A luminous color of pale blue flickered from the one of the light bulbs that Quinn was able to turn on with the light switch.

"This place is in decent shape." Quinn said, stunned.

Deacon scanned the room and looked around for his laptop underneath the white sofa and coffee table, but found nothing what he wanted. His face turned pale, saddened that his plan would turn out unsuccessful without the laptop. Mercury searched around the kitchen part of the penthouse and came back with the same results after looking through the fridge—the fridge that held the remains of brain dead bodies hung from bags to complete the blood bank—her face was disgruntled.

"There's nothing in the kitchen either where you leave most of your important belongings." She replied and hugged Deacon by his neck.

He threw her hands off him, his eyes stone cold. "Where in the hell would I ever put that thing?"

"Did you check your bedroom?"

He thought about it for a moment and went back to Mercury's question. "Not yet—"

"Found it!" yelled out Quinn, who was already in the bedroom, flashing out an Apple lap top in his grip.

Deacon and Mercury ran for the bedroom and saw Quinn turn the laptop on for Deacon's use; he handed it towards Deacon and let him sit on the bed.

"You are a life saver." Deacon mentioned while he rummage around in the files of his computer. He clicked on each file one at a time and opened them, but they were completely empty—no RAR files, simply emptiness. This made Deacon more agitated once he went through all the files until he found the last two, which were in fact the files that held the important information he needed. A devilish smile stretched across his face. "This is it." He mumbled, and clicked the files he needed.

Zilch, only a HTML page with an e-mail address attached to it. This wasn't what he wanted at all.

"Son of a bitch!" He yelled, and tossed the computer at the wall. Mercury dashed for the laptop before it could hit the wall and grabbed it, so that it would not crumble into metal and plastic chunks. A sigh of relief came through her lips.

"What, boss? What's wrong?" Quinn asked him, confused.

"The damn files aren't on there!" he threw his hands in the air, and slouched, letting his head fall in his sweaty palms. "I'm done for!"

Mercury flipped the notebook open and searched the same file Deacon originally opened up. She saw the same thing: an HTML document renamed an e-mail address she couldn't distinguish. "Do you know who the e-mail address is?"

"No, why?"

She opened the document. "Chanel-and-Citrus at mail dot com." She examined the document and noted the date of transcription. "A message was sent to her just an hour ago, and the only one who could have gotten into your notebook would have to be one of the familiars in the clergy. Maybe they wanted to send a file to someone in the clergy but got the wrong address." Suddenly, her face went blank.

Quinn stared at Mercury, who also gave the same expression and held onto a fist. Deacon didn't know why they were both overreacting and grabbed the laptop from Mercury.

"Let me have a look." He said and saw for himself what mercury was talking about. Then, what Quinn and Mercury didn't notice was Deacon's true reaction to the transcription—fury. "The damn files were attached to the message!"

- - - - -

The clouds faded over the ancient town of Fremont, puffs of smoke arising from the tips of the rusted red chimney, a decent breeze in the air blew the autumn leaves in a dancing unison. The streets were abnormally quiet on this peaceful day, not something that always happened, but during the fall season, it would drastically change not by sound, but by appearance. Fall had come around the corner where the children's summer fun had come to an end; the screeching of young kids faded, the summer short-shorts were no longer in style, and the sandals worn practically everywhere were neatly stored in their bedrooms. Now was the time of year where hard work and ethics was all that counted in this town.

However, for Chanel Keen, that was a different story.

Attending the University of New Hampshire for the entire summer—while most of her friends took the summer off—Chanel was relieved that the season was here, and what she called her summer vacation was adorning, except that it was during the fall time.

The back '04 Ford Explore strolled down the deserted roadway; whisking leaves fell into her path and _whooshed_ as the car flew by at a slow but steady speed. Escalating up a sparse hill and throughout the town Chanel strolled past the antique stores she admired since she was a child. The childhood memories were coming back to her: sitting on the rocks near by the river, eating raspberry ice cream while it melted into thick streams and blobs on her adoring face. The apple crisp air that used to come from the apple farm near the quaint grocery store—surprisingly still standing its grounds—and the fresh feeling of release from stress whenever she was in the dense valley of daisies.

Memories like these were scarce, but they were meant to be remembered.

Below that hill was a field, seemingly isolated from far away but up close enough was an old-fashioned house made of plywood painted a russet red and a door the color of a dark green. Though she didn't like the exterior color, she did love the way how traditional the house had been for over sixty years. She pulled into the lengthy gravel driveway and turned off the engine once the car came to a complete stop in the barn.

She took out her school books, notebooks, and other supplies and skirmished up the stone path and into the white porch. Underneath the welcome pad was a key to the door and Chanel opened it without a fret to drop her things and run inside with joy. She opened the door and tossed her belongings onto the dirty green sofa, stretched out her arms and called out a name.

"Oh Citrus? Are you here boy?" She hollered with her hands cupped over her mouth.

From the other side of the room—the quaint sized kitchen—was a giant German Sheppard, leaping into the air and landing on Chanel with a loud thud, its paws dirty from going outside and covered her in dirt. She laughed and scratched behind the hyperactive dog's ear.

"Citrus! You are such a good boy! Aren't you, sweetie?" Chanel smooth-talked to the dog and let him jump on her chest. "Yes you are! You are such a good boy!"

The fresh smell of fried zucchini and yellow squash filled the air with an aroma smell of butter, which delighted Chanel's taste buds; a drooling sensation crammed her mouth with saliva. _Someone must be cooking up some dinner_, she muttered, _it smells delicious!_

"Hi, Chanel!" exclaimed a perky voice. Then, popped out of the kitchen was a dark, brown haired man, whose hair was short and gelled in the front where the tiny strands spiked up. His age appeared to be in his late twenties, a fine looking man for a young age whose body was well built with a little muscle. Moreover, his skin was a light tan color, as if he had just returned from walking along the shoreline of a beach, a sun kiss glow. His eyes were a dark green that were the most noticeable out of his entire look. The most dazzling part of all…was his smile.

A smirk stretched across his face, looking quite embarrassed in Chanel's pink apron while holding a fork in his right hand. _I bet he is embarrassed to be wearing that_, Chanel giggled.

She knelt down besides the dog and patted the top of his head. "Cooking for tonight I see?" Chanel asked, flattering his dressy appearance.

His hands relaxed as he sighed, humiliation clearly showed on his face. "What seems to be wrong with that?"

"You're wearing a powder pink colored apron, a floral pattern oven mitt, and my fluffy slippers…You, my friend, are what I call peculiar."

An 'I-know-I-look-queer' grin struck his face. "I couldn't be more normal than this, so please give me a break on what I look like." He explained, while grabbing Chanel by her hand and yanked her up from the wooden floor.

Chanel pranced into the kitchen while her hand was clutched onto his elbow and sniffed the odor air. "Smells like someone cooked up a barbeque or something. What did you cook?"

His eyebrows lifted into an arch. "Fried zucchini, yellow squash, and barbeque chicken legs. What else?"

"I don't know, but something smells exceedingly appetizing."

"Oh," he evoked a smile. "You must be smelling the chocolate brownies I made."

"Do you cook like this normally, Lance?" She solicited; her eyes squinted with curiosity.

Lance shook his head. "Not unless I'm around with you I don't." And he grabbed her by the waste and summoned her forward. His lips parted and struck her moist mouth with a kiss; his breath overflowed her lungs as she gasped for air, admiring his lovely scent —a freesia cologne, her favorite. She beckoned his forceful kissing by holding his face in her palms, and begged for more, licking her lips. She loved his kissing, no matter where she was or what she was feeling, she wanted his lips to touch hers like an angle bending down to gives her a present. He conceded a final kiss and let her go.

"This has not been something you have ever endured on." He laughed, licking his lips.

"Not really," She joked along.

He pulled up a chair to the table and offered the seat to Chanel, who gracefully accepted his offer and sat down with her hands on her lap. She eyed his every moment from placing the plates and silver utensils on the marble table, and then seating himself across from her. He scooped out a big spoonful of mashed potatoes, vegetables, picked up a chicken leg from the tin tray, and passed the plate to the young woman. After serving a plate for himself Chanel began to chew slowly on the chicken leg, complimentary it's delicate taste of spicy sauce hit her tongue like fire.

Lance propped his head and narrowed his eyes at Chanel; her posture was inadequate as if she was worried about something by the way her hand shook when she handled her fork. She crosshatched her mashed potatoes and kept her glare fixed at the table.

"What seems to be the problem, Chanel?" Lanced asked, forking the potatoes.

Chanel shook her head. "I don't know. Honestly, I have been lost in my concentration for a while."

"Is it because of the school work for the midterm?"

"Maybe, but it's not that. I'm just so stressed out."

"From what?"

She placed her fork down and covered her lap with her napkin. "It's the death cases that are occurring recently. I mean—every day we get two murder cases and one unknown case—and they all involve with the same location. The cities are becoming a lot more dangerous now, I do have to say, but pastoral places are also in jeopardy as well."

"So basically…no one is safe no matter where they live or where they walk."

"Exactly." Chanel answered.

Lance slouched in his hair and lifted his knife in the air, examining the engraved details on the handle. "Who would have caused these crimes?"

"Whoever the person or people are, I will say they are quite a smart person. They know when to attack, what to use, time their escape—they're just too damn smart that I can't even solve it."

Precisely at the moment when Chanel finished her observation of Lance's reaction to the remarks, the phone in the kitchen rings and alerts Lance to pick it up from the line. He answers and listens to the person speaking from the other end. A few sighs, '_okay'_ and '_mmm'_ remarks was all he said until he passed the phone to Chanel. His hand staggered.

"It's for you."

Chanel answers the phone with an exhausting tone that may have alerted the speaker for a few seconds.

"Mrs. Keen, I'm very sorry to bother you at a time like this," the man said. "But we've found another body in the heart of Manchester and it's a brutal scene."

"Chief, would you like me and Lance to come up?"

"Absolutley!" the man retorted.

- - - - -

About an hour later when Chanel and Lance received the message and left the house, they arrived at the scene of the crime. Yellow police tape surrounded the street light poles, approximately ten police cars staggered along the street and blocked off some businesses nearby in order to do the investigation. The black Ford pulled up to the curb and the two baffled young adults exited out of the car and sauntered beyond the yellow tape. Chanel pulled out a mini flashlight from her back pocket and set the switch on.

A glare from the red liquid sent Chanel's eyes in a bewildering blindness, astounded by the mess she was encountering. This _was_ a brutal scene, she subdued. The chief who called Chanel in the first place staggered forward and handed Chanel what looked like an ID covered in thick cherry blood.

"Ms. Keen, I am very hopeful that you came." He said.

She shook hands with him and handed the ID to Lance. "Chief Josef Howard, what might have occurred here? The same results like the other cases we have seen for the past week?"

Josef quivered from the horror that struck him cold. "It is like the other crimes, but this one has more or an atrocious scene that we have never seen before. Follow me." He motioned Chanel and Lance to follow him towards the body he discovered lying on the street.

Lance caught up with them and saw the horror Chanel was also facing…it looked like a mad crime gone wild. Thick oozing burgundy bled on the streets and drained in the street drainer where all the city water flowed throughout the city. Lance questioned to himself how long the body had been outside in this condition.

"What a mess," Lance assumed.

"I couldn't believe it myself when I found her. She must have been out here for more than three hours."

"What could have caused this?" Chanel asked Josef, who quickly glanced down the girl with demanding eyes.

"Not a human for sure," he replied. "A human could not have bled this girl to death."

"So you're saying it's a non-human thing that may have caused all of crimes?"

Josef wasn't sure enough if the right answer would come out of his mouth, after all, he didn't know as much about the case as Chanel. She devoted everything to finding the killer and it's mischief mind. He bit his tongue and avoided any thought of concentration on Chanel's perfection with the case. Obviously, he was jealous that she was doing a lot better than him and the other investigators on the team. His fingers trembled.

"Possibly."

"What an unreasonable answer." She sneered. "You're smarter than that—you know no such creatures would make a mess this big."

"I'm giving _my_ opinion on the case; you know that everyone is working all together on this other than yourself."

Chanel hissed out a laughing rejoinder. She was amused by his counterfeiting arguments and the way he presented it by relating to the fact that she was a harder, and a smarter worker than anyone else was on the investigating team. Such idiots, she deemed. Not giving a care about his whining, she continued to mock Josef's statement. There was no reason to be pissed that I am a lot better than you she joked.

"Are you upset that I am putting every bit of effort into this and that I am getting the positive results to the aftermaths of these crimes."

"Precisely, yes." Josef simulated. "So why won't you give us a change to solve the crimes for once?"

"Do I really give a crap?"

Josef's eyebrows rose, alarmed by her behavior and tolerance to his statement. "Why don't you instead look for cause of death so Lance and I can look up the aftermaths."

"Isn't that the same thing—"

"Ms. Keen. Just…do it." Josef rubbed his forehead and walked away with Lance to get some equipment to inspect the body.

Chanel began to mimic Josef from behind his back and after he and Lance turned for the corner of the street, she continued to examine the body and the damages done to the victim. There were no signs of gun shots, stab wounds nor any other object that would have drained the girl out completely dry. Her hair was in good shape, so nothing may have occurred on the skull—no puncture wounds, nothing. Where could had she bled from that made such a mess on the street? Then, she turned the limbed girl to her side and checked out her back. Bulky scratch marks extended from her lower back, not deep enough to cause extended bleeding, and the scratches were not that serious anyhow. When Chanel pulled the girl's thick golden blonde hair aside to reveal her tan neck, her eyes widened, horrified by what she saw. This can't be right, she thought aloud. Her hands shook as she handled the flashlight, which then suddenly feel to the ground when Chanel saw the cause of the excessive bleeding. Two puncture wounds on the neck revealed—clean from any sight of blood leaking out—the holes were large enough to drain out the girl as if a profuse straw was stuck in an orange.

She didn't understand why such a cause of death would all lead to this. Had this happened to all the victims in the past week? She trembled to come up with an answer, but panic shook her mind when she realized Josef was onto a point, and she wouldn't consider as humane. This was abnormal.

* * *

_NEXT CHAPTER: EXAMINATION_


	2. 2: EXAMINATION

Ha ha, that was quick to upload within two days. This chapter may be short but at least you get the main idea on what is happening. Do enjoy and feel free to comment! I am open with questions and comments. -Caitlyn

* * *

_One may know how to gain a victory, and know not how to use it._ - Pedro Calderon de la Barca

**2: Examination**

The streets of Manchester were now running in fear—the news of the murder of the young girl was spread through the news that night and warned anyone not to panic, but to make sure nobody would be out late at night without someone with them. As the news spread within hours, the investigation team Chanel and Lance were on departed to the headquarters where the police office held a meeting about the mysterious murders for the past two weeks. It was getting to the point where the head Chief of the office, Kenneth Young, made it official to everyone that the killer or killers must be stop immediately. Inside the corridor where the conference was held that night, Chanel, Lance and Josef sat with the investigation party and the police force to discuss the basic problem to the murders.

The conference room was a modern, large place with black and chrome panels nailed to the walls, ceiling lights made of a shiny metal dangled from the ceilings and illuminated the room with a vibrant color of faded blue. In the center, a huge oak table where people surrounded it, evidence placed on top to demonstrate what they have been seeing for the past two weeks and evidence found from last night—the girl recently killed hours ago.

Chanel seated next to Lance and glanced at Josef, who avoided her so that he wouldn't cause more problems, and listened to the head chief talk about the case. Kenneth Young was a bulky man with a bottled neck that outlined his chin; completely bald on top of his forehead and had a bear that was small and round at the end of his jaw. He was in his late forties and had a wife and three kids who he truly loved, mentioning them in his speech, that harm could attack anyone, including his three children who he doesn't want to be seen dead on the streets. Chanel propped her head in her hands as the long speech continued, lacking her self-worthiness to pay attention to the evidence the police force found. They don't even know the evidence I found that's unusual to find on a person, she mused.

"To clarify this entire case…" Kenneth enunciated. "I suggest we go back to the other cases and see if we can find some similarities to the murders…"

This is taking too damn long, Chanel deliberate inside her mind. She fumbled with her hands, impatient that the force was not getting the clues they needed to conclude the crimes. Lance stepped down to end Kenneth's speech and added something on his own.

"No matter what we do and where we find these people," he elucidated. "We won't be able to determine how they killed them. On each of these victims' bodies, we found no signs of puncture wounds, stab marks, bullet shots, and so forth. So how can we prove the case if we don't have any notes on cause of death?"

Mr. Young scratched his nose and pointed out towards Lance's point that he was on the right path. "This boy has got a point. The victims' causes of death are unknown because the lack of evidence is not helping."

Josef stood up from his chair and walked over to Kenneth to take his side of Lance's explanation. "I agree—we must seek for more evidence."

Moans and whines filled the room with negativity, that it affected Kenneth's new mood. He retorted towards the crowd of people who were moaning. "Ladies and gentlemen, behave like you are supposed to. It might be tough that we need to do more work, but I think this will help us a lot to undergo new facts sprouting from the cracks of this case." He motioned Josef to take a seat and ordered a young lady named Jennifer Borrow—a red haired woman with green eyes and small bone structure on her face— situated herself in front of the crowd and strolled to Kenneth, who passed to her a manila folder filled with thick papers. She opened it and tossed the notes around to people in a clockwise circle.

"To begin, let's talk about the girl last night." Jennifer said. "What do we know already?"

Lance took a quick momentary look at the paper he held and answered the question. "The girl's name is Amanda Crusher. She turned twenty-one two days ago and lives in Salem, Massachusetts. My bets are that she and her family—or friends—must have been celebrating her birthday at one of the nightclubs here in Manchester. The girl got drunk, wandered in the streets, and was unexpectedly greeted by a serial killer who then took her life. I think that is the scenario to her death, though we don't know how the killer killed her exactly."

Several of the people shook their heads in agreement; however, Chanel made no movement at all. She bellowed her head, grasped the paper from Lance's hands, and examined the notes herself. It didn't sound clear in her opinion though Lance's scenario seemed precisely wise, but how the girl was killed was something she didn't have the guts to mention. The puncture wounds on the neck…threatening every inch of her body, she couldn't handle the pressure she was already facing. If she told them, the Chief might get furious and claim her facts to be anomalous. If she didn't, then the same feeling over and over would circulate in her mind and continue to threaten her with messages she had never felt before.

There had to be a way to ease out the facts she found. "I think we should do an autopsy on the girl, that way we can find more than what we know."

"Is it a safe move, Ms. Keen?" Jennifer asked.

"I believe so."

"Okay then," Jennifer agreed. "We shall so a full body examination on the girl. Ms. Keen, you have the honors to work on that part if you want."

Chanel nodded her head. "I will do it."

Kenneth stretched out a smile and shook hands with her, patting her back. "Wonderful, Ms. Keen. We are honored to have you on the team."

Josef rolled his eyes and held a grin on his face, ugly enough to avoid. "Under my rules she is on my team. Hopefully you aren't stealing her from my party because she's a smart woman."

"Indeed not," Kenneth frowned. "But I do wish though I had people like her."

Lance held onto the manila folder tightly and handed it to Chanel, who accepted it as a truce to breaking the case. "It's all yours now. You have the power to determine the results."

- - - - -

"So, are you saying that those files you had and saved on your computer are now…missing?" Quinn presumed.

Deacon stretched across his head and folded his hands on his stomach. The intensity, the anger, all of the emotions he had never cared about before were now blooming bigger than ever. He hated it, and wanted those emotions to go away. As being a deity, why would they cry out emotions? He questioned. They are fearless and strong—as for Deacon though, those dreams of being a powerful man were fading away. The resemblance of a powerful man in a clergy of twelve, influential people was something from the past. They were all dead, and he couldn't do anything to get his wills back. Though the La Magra energy was still within him, he couldn't face his emotions like a normal person would by talking to someone personal about it. He wasn't a normal person, he was a vampire for crying out loud. Vampires don't have the same emotions as a human; but why was he having them? Do vampires have emotions by don't show them as if they were real?

For the time being, he couldn't think about that. He had to deal with the loss of his files now mailed half way across the world—or somewhere near by—they could be anywhere and some innocent human is going to find them in their mail account. Deacon rubbed his forehead and sighed.

"These files were that important to you." Quinn said to him, rubbing his elbow.

Deacon mumbled, "Hell yeah they were."

Mercury, who was on Deacon's laptop searching information the mail address fumbled with the internet and searched everywhere who owned the e-mail address. A couple of popular sites she went on didn't help, but minutes later after going through the g-mail account, a site pointed her towards the way. She opened it and found a personal information page on the account holder.

"I found out the name to the person who owns the address." She said.

Quinn stumbled over and sat next to Mercury, looking at the same page. "Yeah, you're right."

She read the information aloud for Deacon to head. "Chanel Keen. Age twenty four and a half; lives in Fremont, New Hampshire with her boyfriend; is in college; and is in investigator for the Manchester Police Department. This girl sounds tough."

Deacon mocked Mercury cruelly. "_She sounds tough. _Like I'd give a crap about that. All I wanted to know who the person was." He rose from the bed and scratched the back of his head. "She lives in Fremont like you said."

"Yes, why do you want to know?"

A devilish smiled rose on Deacon's face; he walked to the closet and pulled out a black petticoat and a belt, and tossed them on his bed. He began to rampage through his dresser, pulling out a dark blue printed shirt with a _Hollister_ slogan and a pair of dark brown jeans, and stripped down from head to toe and put on the fresh new clothing. He tossed the tattered clothing into the trash bin. At first, Quinn and Mercury were confused why all at once he was getting dressed up as if he were going on a fancy date. This wasn't the way he would usually behave. His style was awkward, young adult like. It was disgusting in Mercury's opinion for she liked the older look of Deacon before he changed all of a sudden. His ashen skin went perfect with the navy color, creating a muscular form with his chest and arms. He put on a belt and bucked it, and fixed his shirt to make it look perfect since perfect _was_ one of his favorite words. Suddenly, he pulled out a pair of sandals from the back of the closet and put them on as well.

Mercury had enough of the foolishness going on and stampeded towards Deacon, thrashing her hand on his coat he was about to put on. "You look like you are dressed up for some beach party."

"Exactly my point to dressing up," he hissed. "I'm going to the Club Casino in the seacoast where Chanel lives and cause a threat there for her to come and investigate—she couldn't refuse if she has that kind of a job. That is when I'll meet her and suck out information from her about the files."

"You know, Deacon? You do come up with the best ideas around here."

He smiled and pulled on the coat again. "There's a club in the casino where we can go and wait for her, so basically everything will occur by the time we get there."

From underneath a bed he pulled out a silver suitcase, opened it, and passed to Mercury and Quinn two shiny guns.

"Pack all of your things, fellas, we're moving."

"To where?" Quinn asked.

"To New Hampshire."

- - - - -

Three days later after the investigation team agreed that Chanel would do the autopsy on the girl; quietness was all that they ever wanted. Three days of total silence, no crimes reported of mysterious murders, nothing. It was as if relief had come all of a sudden and wanted the terrorization to go away. Chanel, Lance, and Josef as promised continued to do the investigation on their own, let Chanel do the work by comparing the crimes aside each other, and comparing them to the girl they found three nights ago. Evidence was shown, as Chanel wanted; it was clear that they must have suffered the same death like Amanda did. Though Chanel didn't tell the team about what she found, she felt confident that she was closer to closing the case than the rest of the team completing their half of the story. However, the questioned remained in her thoughts. What kind of monster would have killed Amanda this way?

It had been three weeks since the crimes had evoked New Hampshire into a state of emergency, now that the most sever murders in the largest cities were calming down, relief spread out everywhere. A few misdemeanors were in some spots of the state, but they wasn't as severe as the murders, that they were handled and treated easily and the problem would be fixed. The police department was as happy as ever that the levels of incidents in Manchester were lower than the average crimes in the state. Kenneth Young was also pleased that the investigation teams involved were ending on the case once Chanel is able to find the cause of death. Therefore, they waited patiently for an answer from the girl, who devoted everything in her power to solve the deaths.

Lance's relationship with Chanel was tighter than ever. Every day he would come by to Chanel's house and make out with her for at least three hours until he had to head home for the evening, but the big question popped in his mind occasionally. Should he asked the big question, or should he wait until the right moment comes? It sounded funny in his mind, but in reality, he was serious about it. He would do anything to tell her how much he loved her, even if it was a big stuffed teddy bear sitting on her front yard, holding a bouquet of flowers. It was clear that he had to tell her, but his guts wouldn't let him, and the knot in his stomach constricted over time.

A month had passed and New Hampshire thought the terror was done…but it wasn't. It continued again.

By the time the reign of terror occurred again, September was coming to a sorrowful end. Fall was blooming and it wasn't going to be pretty, and some of the towns people feared for going on vacations, that they instead stayed at home with their children. For Chanel and the crew, their vacation was not going to be easy now that they had to deal with a new problem. Instead of three murders a week, eight murders occurred, and the results were disastrous than ever before, that even the police force and investigation teams scuttled in fear. However, Chanel withstand her grounds and told Josef that she was going to continue the rest of the investigation while everybody else hid underneath their blankets. Josef, however, didn't like the idea for Chanel to investigate along, now that the case was almost ending.

It was on September 22 when Josef couldn't take it and peer pressure sucked his mind from the reality the state was facing. Not only was Manchester in disaster, but also was the seacoast. Finally, Josef gave up and had to make the move—he had to call for professional help.

In his quaint size office that appeared to look more like a library than an ordinary police agency, he picked up the beige phone and dialed in the numbers he only knew. Secretly, he dialed and waited for a voice to show.

"Hello," a deep, tone voice answered.

Josef sighed in relief that he was still there. "Oh thank god you're around these days." He replied. "I really need your help, Eric."

Eric began to laugh. "Josef, you know that nobody calls me Eric anymore. It's weird."

"Not to me it isn't. It's a great way to keep your identity shut."

"It's a little too late for that—everybody knows me."

"True, but listen. I need your help—for the past two months we have been having unknown murders throughout the state, and this is getting to the point when already over twenty murders are being investigated. I know what this is caused by, and I know one of my clients has the answer too, but she won't tell me." After explaining the rest of the story, Josef gave the final thought to Eric. "I think your kind is revolting."

"I knew it," Eric said, who sounded just as disgusted as Josef was.

"So, can you help the investigation?" Josef asked.

Eric gave his approval immediately. "Yes I will. But may I ask you something first so I can understand this clearly?"

"Anything." Josef clarified.

"It's been rumored around here that some missing files from an apocalypse are somewhere in your area of the state. In addition, they are leading to the one person on your team you mentioned: Chanel. Do you know is she still has those files or not?"

Confused by what he was talking about, Josef answered, "No. But I had no idea she was in possession of files this important. Where might she had gotten them from?"

"I was told some clergy had them and accidentally sent the information to the wrong person." Eric said. His voice was so furious, that Josef backed away from the phone to avoid getting an earache from his loud, booming voice. "I hope to god this isn't what I think it is from. If so, I'm going to start my season for hunting _early_."

"You're a good man, Eric." Josef exclaimed happily, staring down at the manila folder Chanel was in possession of. "I will assign you to help with us…and tell Chanel the truth."

"We'll have to eventually, because if she is doing this alone, she will ultimately find out and most likely get petrified about it."

Josef knew the consequences if Chanel did find out the truth. Whether this was a good idea or not, he had to tell her in the end or else time would run out. "I'll see you soon," Josef said, and hung up the phone, burying his head in his hands. Was it the right decision to hire him for the job, or was his world now going to toss and turn into the pit hells of fire. Whatever the cause, his choice was limited, and for Chanel doing it alone, there was no way she would understand the meaning to an immortal life.

* * *

_NEXT CHAPTER COMING SOON_


	3. 3: SIGHT

_Man becomes man only by his intelligence, but he is man only by his heart.- Henri Frederic Amiel_

**3: Sight**

It had been weeks since the murders continued to get an advantage on Chanel's work, and most recently the murders were worse over time. Some let over corpses were left with huge gashes on their neck and wounds all over their body as if they were slaughtered, it sent a cold feeling to Chanel's chest as she would try to breathe whenever a body was brought to the station for an autopsy. Recently a day ago, a dreadful call from a casino in Hampton made most of the investigators run away from this attack that night—a person was with a couple of friends that night and was brutally attacked by them for doing something they didn't like. They left the body in the chamber of the casino for people to sight along their way to the casino ballroom.

It was a disgusting story in Josef's opinion. He didn't know what action to take if these were the killers who had been murdering most of their people for the past month. Thinking wisely, he believed they were linked to the other murders, though he wasn't precisely sure he had to let Chanel take this case. If not, they would be at a dead end.

The next day, Chanel did an autopsy on the man they found at the casino; his body was badly bruised and the large gashes were dried up. She bit her tongue—making it bleed a little—confused why the crimes were ongoing. She finished the autopsy and pulled out a soiled cloth.

"I can't believe it is happening again." Chanel leered, covering the corpse with a thin white sheet of cloth.

"You mean the murders from last week and last night?" Lance questioned her. He knew his question was stupid enough to ask even though he knew what was going on.

She grimaced at him and put away the supplies she used when doing an autopsy on the dead Amanda; the glove box closed with a light _clack_ sound. "Obviously, Lance. What else did you think?"

He shook his head as he slouched into the folded steel chair that scratched the floor, leaving a ray of gray in the linoleum tile. What an idiot; she gargled the words by drinking from her water bottle and continued to grimace at the man who at she first considered him as smart, now was showing his stupidity near the end of their autopsy. During the weeks of endless research he came up with possible scenarios for the girl's death, they were reasonable since young adults like Amanda could have feel for the same plot, but were they reliable enough to solve the case? Somehow they weren't as connected as she though, though cause of death were all the same in all murder cases.

That was the information she needed to get this case over with so that she could enjoy the end of her vacation, but it was not going to happen.

"What is the cause of death?" Lance asked her.

She opened up the manila file that held all the information and handed Lance a photo of the girl's neck. "I found this when I first examined her body the day we found her. It looks like she was stabbed in the neck."

Lance examined the file for himself and came up with another solution. "These don't look like normal stab wounds."

"Huh?"

"A stab wound has a slit appearance­—these look like holes."

"Holes?" She inquired with a nasty tone.

Lance shook his head. "Yes, holes."

"Then she could have been stabbed with a pencil for crying out loud if that is what you are saying!" She exclaimed.

Lance began to laugh, his deep laugh was lovely to hear in Chanel's opinion, and he tossed the picture in the pile of notes made during the autopsy. Chanel smirked a quick smile from his humorous laughter and made a straight face after a split second of being vile. It embarrassed her is she was ever vile, it meant nothing but nastiness. The word shouldn't even exist.

"Let's be serious about this, Chanel." he said, "A pencil? What could have made these holes?"

She hefted the notes from the pile and scrunched them in the manila folder, eying Lance's pose in the chair. His arm rested to his sides and his legs extended out like tree roots clinging to the ground, an unnatural and inappropriate pose she thought.

"Why don't you work on that while I define the notes?"

He grudged. "I guess I can do that for you."

"Great!" She exclaimed and tossed the evidence to him. He quickly grabbed onto them before they would flow in the air and scatter all over the floor. "I really needed the help. I was told by Josef that he wanted me to go the casino ballroom where the latest murder was called in."

"So that means I'm here alone for the rest of the day to do _your_ work?"

"You and Josef said you wanted to help because you were jealous of my acquisitions." She smiled at him and pulled out a Coach bag from underneath one of the steel chairs. "I'll be back at the house by eleven. You can leave me the leftovers in the fridge."

"As if I would be going to your house after to rampage through your stuff." He sneered.

"Well then you can sleep in the basement if you are worried." She joked, and opened the entrance door of the corridor. She slammed the door behind her and walked down the hallway that turned into an office, where patients and clients waited for meetings with the police force that involved with the murder cases. One of them, a brunette haired man with a gray tux sat pleasantly in the corner of the room with a suitcase at hand. He looked like a private investigator than an average person who would come by, and that is the kind of person Chanel feared.

Chanel exited the building as the department began to fill up with people scattering inside, most of them whom looked like the fancy looking man Chanel noticed a while ago. They all wore the same color suit and had the same hair cropped to the end where the tips met the tips of the ear. She hoped that they weren't private investigators, or else the investigation team would have been outraged with anger that someone had hired professionals to do the job. Josef would be the one to blame for the trouble.

The Ford car was parked in the back of the building, along with the police cruisers and buses that transported criminals to the jail house miles away from Manchester. She opened the car door and was stopped all of a sudden by a eerie noise that awoke her from her day dreaming of private investigators; she spun around and found Josef staring at her in the face. Creepiness filled her chest, her breathing lightly from fright.

"Chanel," he accounted. His breathing was heavily, as if he had been running towards her for a long time. "I forgot to tell you, but I have a friend of mine coming from New York City who is rather interested in helping you with the case."

She squinted her eyes, baffled. "You called for help?"

"I couldn't take it. I had to get help­–everyone else in the party left because they fear of getting hurt. And I couldn't let you do this alone, so I called a friend of mine who is good with these cases and was happy to be hired to do the job."

She wanted to punch him, but punching wouldn't help. Fury, all she ever wanted to have at a moment like this. "When is he coming?" she asked, without trying to sound furious about his plan.

A smile stretched across his face. By his looks, his _friend_ was already here. "He's coming right now." And with a swift motion with his hand, he cupped his hand over his ear and listed to the sound of squealing tires on the dry pavement.

A car peeled out from behind her and rushed towards the two, waiting, and pulled up next to Josef who was laughing his ass off when Chanel suddenly went into panic mode. She grabbed onto her chest, her heart pounding. Who was this person Josef was talking about she questioned in her mind. Then, on the driver side of the car, the door swung open and a huge man climbed out while holding onto what looked like a gun in his left hand. She staggered back and hit the side of her car, frightened by what she was seeing.

He was a dark sinned man with a crew hair cut and tattoos on the back of his neck, his eyes were shield by a pair of sunglasses that were in Chanel's opinion out of style. His black coat was long and worn, and his shoes were rather dirty of what looked like dirt and blood. He looked like a serial killer than a helpful man.

The man smiled at Josef and offered a hug for him. "Josef!" he said, his tone was deep. "It's great to see you."

Josef laughed, caught in the man's tight grip, and patted him in the back. "Chanel," he introduced the man. "This is Eric. He is a close friend of mine who I used to live next to when I used to live in New York."

Eric suddenly tapped on Josef's shoulders, telling him his correct name everyone responds him to. He cleared his throat and responded. "Oh my apologies, I don't mean to be rude, but you do know what everyone calls me by."

"Oh yes." Josef cleared his throat and corrected himself. "Chanel, this is Blade."

"Huh?" Chanel responded awkwardly, not noticing Blade's reaction.

Josef muttered, "Yes? What is it?"

"Sorry, but please­—why do you call him that?" At the exact moment she shield her eyes from the sun beating down on her face, but from Josef's point of view it looked like she was offended that this man was enormously huge and also scary looking.

Blade sneered, "Because it is how I would like to be responded by." His accent was dangerously scary, that Chanel avoided to have any more eye contact with the man she responded to as a serial killer.

"Okay then..." Mute yourself, she thought, just shut up so that you won't cause any more problems. Quietness entered...it was what Chanel wanted for a while since Blade made the entrance scene with his car.

Josef decided to barge into the unusual quietness and added onto the task he wanted Chanel to do for the evening. "I am going to have Blade come and follow you around so that he can get the exact evidence you have proven about the case, so make sure while you are at the Casino ballroom, give him a chance to work in with the evidence found on the scene tonight."

Outraged, she glared at Josef, swearing under her breath. "You want me to bring this beast along?"

"Be nice to our guest­-"

"I'm not that emotional with comments like that, so don't you worry about it." Blade curtailed, his head held high and stared down at the girl as if he were to be obeyed as always.

"So you are saying that you don't have any feelings?"

"Chanel! Behave!" Josef exclaimed and tossed a fist in the air. He staggered back to Blade and apologized for Chanel's peculiar behavior. "I'm so sorry about this. I don't know what has gotten in with her."

"It's fine with me." Blade said, and pointed a finger at her. "I expect you to have good manners when you are with me twenty-four/seven. If not, we will have complications along the way."

Offended by his creepiness, she threw her hands in the air and covered herself from being hit in the face. Blade turned to Josef and told him that he was going to take Chanel with him to the casino instead of having her lead him the way now that they were already have problems with each other. Chanel swore to herself and wished the man to disappear so that she could go there herself. She didn't need the assistance, she was perfectly fine on her own, but why this? Is Josef trying to be a pain in the neck to her? She put her hands down and agreed to the _new_ plan, though with doubt in her mind that it wouldn't work.

"All right, you can come. However, you cannot be near me within ten feet and you cannot-"

"I get it. Don't go through the rules."

"Fabulous!" Josef happily said, and clasped his hands together. "I'm glad that this is going to work out after all."

Without noticing, Chanel and Blade both stared devilishly at him, rolling their eyes. A bunch of crap from your mouth, Chanel mused.

"So then, we might as well be on our way?"

"Right," Chanel said, and lend him the keys. "We're taking _my_ car."

- - - -

The drive down to the seacoast wasn't as bad as Chanel thought, though the idea of having Blade as a 'new' partner annoyed the hell out of her, bickering in her mind why she had to be in this situation already when she was already in near completion of the murders. Cussing out words, Chanel leaned her head against the cold glass window of the car and awaited for the casino to pop up so that she would jump out and run away from the maniac serial killer looking man.

Blade pulled up to the curb of the road and stopped, he eyed the parking lot behind the casino. No signs of familiars, thank god.

The parking lot was not as full as the one at the police department, which made it easy for Blade to park the Ford way back behind the building. It was an easier way to keep hidden if in fact, there were familiars at the place. It's better to be safe than sorry, he thought.

The car stalled behind the building, where a rubbish compartment sat next to a door that would lead another way inside the casino ballroom. The one thing Blade did hope for was that the building wasn't another night club. He had been through enough night clubs for once.

"This is the back to the casino?" Chanel asked him, his eyes peeled to the street lights above.

He shook his head. "Yes, from what you've told me."

Chanel rolled her eyes and grasped onto the rusted knob, the knob turned and made a click sound once she kicked the steel door open. Inside the tiny back entrance, the walls were covered with cracks and holes, some with worn out pipes cut off at the ends stuck out. Two light bulbs that hung from the ceiling lit the way; a faint white glowed off the walls and revealed the dirty floor that was made with ceramic tiles, opposite colors from one another. Along the way as the slowly hiked into their path of travel, a set of rusted metal stairs popped up when Chanel scanned the corner.

"I guess we have to go through here to get upstairs." she replied.

Blade grabbed onto the stair handle, held onto Chanel's hand, and heaved up the woman in his tough grasp, cutting off half of her circulation. Her hand was released, a sign of relief that his crunching hands didn't cause that much damage to hers. It took only a few minutes to get up to the top of the stairs and by the time Blade reached for the door, he put his ear up against the cold mahogany colored door. he could hear the sounds of laughter and praise, it sent a chill down his spine, hoping it wasn't a club.

He turned the handle and motioned Chanel to follow him. She didn't know where the exact location they were in, but by perspective of the interior design, it was the casino she was supposed to examine last night's murder. Around the corner where she stood was the restroom stalls and a janitors closet.

"Over there," Blade said and pointed towards the middle of the enormous ballroom sized place. He pulled off his leather trench coat, his weapons that were attached to his waist by a thick black belt, his sunglasses, and tossed the stuff aside behind a bushy palm plant. He retched his face into a grin—trying to look happy to impress the girl and the other visitors in the casino room­--and turned to face Chanel in the face.

"Try to act normal."

Chanel's eyebrows raised. "Why?"

"It's going to be an interesting investigation with these _things_ floating round here."

"Things?" Chanel questioned, her tone as tough as metallic.

"You'll see," he said, and pondered off. _Hopefully there aren't familiars around here._ He staggered towards the casino and left Chanel behind for him to check.

Still baffled by what he was talking about, Chanel veered the opposite direction so that she wouldn't have to be watched by some freak who thinks he's a tough army guy. He thinks he's smart, she hissed, what an idiot. A balcony stood above her head that was held by two golden pillars with an engraved floral design swirling from top to bottom. After walking through thick crowds near the balcony entrance, she found herself in place where the casino room was active with animated people laughing and cheering. It could have been the obnoxious behaviors going on, but something else triggered Chanel's thoughts. And she wasn't sure what it was.

She walked down one of the aisles of slot machines and stopped near one to give it a good look at. Josef had told her the person who was killed that night was using one of the slot machines and won a grand total of ten thousand dollars; the fella must have been lucky to win that much money only to be murdered after. Described by Josef, the slot machine purposively was located near the end of one of the aisles, and had blood on the cash dispense from cutting themselves.

The slot machine Chanel looked at did not have any evidence of blood. She was back to square one. Which slot machine did he mention?

She paced around the other three aisles during the full half hour and found nothing that would help her solve last night's murder case. But still the same results showed up and Chanel thought about giving up and couldn't find a good excuse to blame to Josef why she didn't find anything at the casino club. She rubbed her temple, sweat damped her forehead before she used her sweater to damp off the extra moisture from her eyelids.

It's going to be a _long_ night, she thought over.

Her pocket began to vibrate, and she plucked out a tiny silver cell phone. She flipped it open and answered it. "Hello?"

"Chanel?" Josef questioned, appealing to her voice as hopeful as ever.

Josef? Why is he calling?

"I forgot to mention this to you before you and Blade left."

"Oh, you mean the freak guy?" She sneered.

Josef sighed, disbelief lifted his tone. "Chanel, please be respectful."

"All right," she sighed.

"A witness told me last night that a group of people is possibly involved with the murder, and they say they are staying at the hotel for a few weeks and might be leaving sometime tonight. I think it would be best to find out who these people are. Don't tell them you're an investigator, but find a way to get information off their tongues."

"I'll do that." She agreed, "Who might these people be?"

"I was...told that they...were...a group of friends whom are here...to find..." Then, a cracking sound cut off Josef and Chanel's conversation on the phone. Chanel furiously exclaimed into the phone loudly enough to get a response back.

"Josef?" No response.

The phone went dead all at once. Must be in a bad area, she mused. "I really do hate cell phones."

She stampeded towards the other end of the rec hall where she sighted Blade merging around with the rest of the crowd and examined the slot machines being used; his body was easy to spot out from a mile away, but what was most interesting was that he told her he didn't like revealing the real Eric people would never have seen him as. A glut feeling heaved her chest when she saw him look over a woman's small shoulders. The one thing he didn't have for sure was manners.

Blade walked away from the woman and caught up to Chanel, with a sickening look on her face.

"What is it?" he asked.

Chanel shook her head and denied. "Oh, it's nothing. I'm just overwhelmed."

"Overwhelmed? by what?"

"I don't know," she confessed. "It's so much to be seeing in one night."

Blade bit the lower half of his lip and looked over his shoulder. What the hell is her problem, he questioned himself. He went back to face her again. "Do you want to let this off for the night so you could get some rest?"

Chanel denied again. "Oh heavens no! I want to do the job Josef asked me to do."

His face was questionable, though he clearly didn't understand why she was refusing every offer he mentioned. Something had to be in her mind that is driving her crazy, but she wouldn't let it out; for a woman her age she was a tough one to deal with, she was way different that what he thought of Karen for the first time.

Karen...he pondered briefly. It had been too long since he had seen her years ago, prior to that night where he thought she was going to die because of him. It was too much emotions to handle though he didn't like revealing his emotions—inside, he felt that cold feeling—regret of letting that beast gain power to kill him. After all this time of having that feeling shut tight inside, he was seeing the lighter side to himself. But was it enough to lighten his personality?

But she...that woman he saved at the hospital and at the place he couldn't remember, was something more to him than his abnormal ability as a man...or thing he emphasized...she was something special. She found the cure he needed if he didn't want to be a beast ever again. She was something...just like Chanel, but different by personality, they were similar by thought. Only if Chanel knew what he was thinking about, she would understand.

He picked up his cell phone from his back poet and read the time. "Well, it's not that late to still investigate."

"Okay then," Chanel responded, rudely. "You take the left corridor and I'll go up to the balcony. How about that?"

Blade's smiled flipped into a scowl. "Whatever," he said, and scattered away.

Finally, she said to herself, alone time. She sundered towards the balcony entrance where a guard wearing all black hauled people to a stop and asked them for their wrist. Baffled, she looked closely at the woman with long, scarlet hair holding her wrist up to the man who then scanned her wrist like scanning a bar code, and opened the tiny gate for her. A bar code, she pondered. She sighed in disbelief, realizing she wouldn't be able to get up to the balcony after all. Oh well, at least she tried.

She gazed up at the balcony where a few—dashingly good looking—people overlooked the casino from behind the railing while drinking and laughing to jokes their friends made. One had short, curly black hair talking to a premium blonde woman who had a small structured face and a flat body. Her chin was slightly pointy but her features were outstanding; it's possible that she's a model for good looks on the runway. She wore a pale blue dress, her slim shoulders were covered with a white cardigan that matched perfectly with her pallid skin. She was beautiful, that Chanel wished she was just as good looking as she was.

To the side was a brawny man with thick citrus hair tied to the back that nipped his neck at a good angle. He didn't have a clean shaved look—only a thick beard the same color as his hair—and his face was so bawdy, that Chanel refused to loom him any more.

Then, she peered to the side of the man, and her heat fluttered, stopping instantly when she caught sight of him. She was mystified by his handsome features, almost spell bound that her feet felt like they were floating. His hair was a shaggy auburn that shined gold in the lights above, his light blue eyes were exhilarating as they glimmered, his face strong and like an army soldier—tough. He had a forty eight after hour shave, clean to the curve under his moistened lips. This wasn't a normal man, he was angel. And surprisingly, she thought he was more well-favored than Lance.

Without warn, the man she had been staring at saw her from the corner of his eye, and he continued to stare without giving out an emotion. Chanel couldn't move her feet now that he saw her underneath the balcony. If she ever attempted to run away, he would possibly wonder why. Slowly, Chanel walked away and went for a gambling at one of the slot machines without looking back at him. Above her marvelous beauty he had saw and come to adore, he smiled, and headed for the stairs.

She found one good slot machine to give it a try at, and slipped in two coins and pulled the leaver. The dancing pictures swirled, having to have her adjust her eyes for a few moments until she saw the same symbols show up three in a row. A lucky winner, she guessed. It was only a twenty dollar win though Chanel was pleased to have won something from a slot machine.

Suddenly, a hand grasped her shoulder, and Chanel's heart pounded hard. She spun around to see who it was that grabbed her—it was the same man she saw in the balcony above. His face was retched into a hear warming smile.

"My dear," he said softly, his voice was velvety and it melted Chanel's voice as she tried to say something. "I can't believe I am meeting you for the first time."

"Who are you?" She asked quickly.

"A friend."


	4. 4: MISGIVING

It's been a little while since I've made this chapter. Do enjoy and feel free to comment! - Caitlyn

* * *

_Just because everything is different doesn't mean anything has changed. - Irene Peter_

**4: Misgiving**

Chanel faltered for a brief moment and questioned the man again. "Pardon me?"

He smiled mirthfully, his teeth clenched together as he tried to come up with an answer for this. It was unusually quiet now that he head told her he would be known as a friend. Great start there he hissed at himself, enraged that this wasn't the way he wanted things to turn out. Since he was clever, he fibbed a great exculpation to let himself off the hook. This better work he mused.

"My apologize, but you look familiar to a friend I know." He answered, his velvety tone enriched his mood. "Happens all the time when you think you see someone you know and instead it's just someone else."

"Yeah," she agreed. "I know what you mean."

She jumped off the metal stool and staggered off to catch up with Blade who would be at the other end of the ballroom, but the gorgeous man—she had to admit, but he was rather good looking for a man who appeared to be in his mid thirties—caught up with her and walked by her, trying to hold her hand to slow her down. Awkward, why would he do such a thing? He wasn't that flattering to some woman, since he didn't have that kind of touch to flirt with girls. He heaved away his hand and instead present his voice.

"Wait," he recalled.

Chanel twisted her body around and stood still like a statue as she waited for him to continue his response. She turned her head and faced him, her eyes shield with her curly nut-brown hair. She peaked through the open gaps of her hair stands to see what he was about to say. It startled him, her beauty was admirable, something not often seen on the streets. Her beauty as presented could have been even better, it was something he wanted to dig into, her lips were rosy red, her emerald eyes—with a bit of brown and yellow surrounding the irises—and her fawn skin lightened her peachy cheeks. She was a masterpiece! Nothing this great would come around these days.

He felt his stomach tightened into a knot, it was too much to endure. She was a figurine doll found on store shelves at a toy store. Not Barbie, but something even better. It could have been her eyes or her cheeks or her hair, but it was everything about her that he lusted. Her smell was precious, a floral but strong sent. His mouth grew watery as his eyes danced all over her slim body, her neckline was small, but the necklace she wore made her neck seem taller and stronger. Her neckline...his lips parted, a bit or drool formed underneath his tongue.

"Yes," Chanel asked again.

His eyes widened, realizing she was talking to him one more. "Oh, sorry." He rubbed the back of his head. "I was hallucinating for a moment."

She made a befuddled look with her eyebrows arched up, and her smile changed. "Really? Well, you should just tell me what you were going to say."

"Yes, I will." He coughed, covering his mouth. "I was going to ask you what your name away, just in case my theory is right."

"Oh, sure." She said, "My name is Chanel Keen."

"Chanel Keen?" he asked, seemingly baffled that her name _did_ sound familiar.

She shook her head. "That's me."

His smile grew larger, but enough to make Chanel aware of his mood. "Wow, it is such a beautiful name. It reminds me..."

"Of what?"

He laughed. "The designer company who makes the designer name bags."

Chanel also laughed along with his observation. "Ha, yeah, people tell me that as a joke."

She twirled her key chain with her fingers as she waited for more discussion to go along with their out-of-the-way conversation. Her gut made her uttered out a prickly cough. if there was anything else to talk about, she would have to act this way. It was useless anyhow, why not just walk away and say farewell to him? Her mind went on in a continued cycle of excuses to say or reasons to leave.

"Would you...like a drink or something I could get you?" he asked her pleasantly.

Her lips sealed shut for a moment until that question came out of nowhere. She mumbled, "I guess I could have something." She mused for a quick second. "Before we have a drink together, may I ask you what _your_ name is?"

He shook his head and said, "I'm Deacon."

"Deacon...it's an interesting name."

"You must think _all_ names are interesting."

"Well mine compared to yours is quite abnormal." She laughed.

Deacon laughed with Chanel and brought her to one of the bars in the casino next to the concession stands, pulled up a bar stool for her and himself, and sat down. A woman with a short tan tank top and black hair swayed by them and held in her hand a pad of paper. She had a cute face Deacon thought, but nothing compared to Chanel's. The woman held out a smile and asked him what he was interested in ordering.

"How may I help you, sir?" She asked Deacon first.

Deacon pressed his palms together and answered, "A rum shot, please."

The woman leered to her left and asked Chanel. "How about you, my dear?"

Chanel stuttered, "Oh, I'll just have water. With a lemon please."

"Sure thing!" She said, and went to the other counter where she prepped up the drinks for them both. Deacon spied Chanel's eyes, her quivering lip looked delicious.

"You don't drink?"

"No," she replied. "I don't drink alcohol. I find it to have an unusual after taste."

He laughed by her conformity, his eyes relaxed as he gazed at her shoulders and down her chest. "I find you be a unique woman."

"Thank you," she murmured. It wasn't the usual response she would have gotten from a stranger. The fact was, why was she hanging out with him if she didn't know him? How queer she war, just being alone with someone she had never seen before and now his response was that she looked familiar to him.

"What do you do for a living?" She asked him.

Deacon smudged his smile. "I'm in the government."

"Really? That is cool."

"How about you? What do you work for?"

Josef had reminded her not to tell anyone who she was and what she did for her job—just in case the criminals were there that night she wouldn't give away too much information about herself. But he sounded like a sensitive man, not a killer. She speared the thought and went on with his question.

"I work undercover for an investigation team at the Manchester Police department."

"Your job sound a lot better to work for than mine," he said. "We get into problems all the time." His back arched over the counter as he listened carefully to the woman.

"I knew a couple of my friend worked for the government too, but as for me it's nothing that big of a deal."

"Why is that?"

"My job seems to be pretty boring-" She cut herself off for a fraction of a second. "Actually, my job _is_ boring."

"You can't stand it?" He confirmed, adding a British accent.

She shook her head. "I don't hate it, but it's getting to the point that it isn't fun anymore. We used to have fun with investigating new crimes—this time however we have been getting the same thing for a month and a half already."

He gritted his teeth and his smile pulled into a delicate, but bashful frown. "What is it that's been occurring lately?"

"Mass murders on the streets."

"My god," he murmured. His hands shook a little as he handled his shot glass; auburn liquid swished around in the tiny glass. "That is awful!"

"I know," she consented; her voice was as faint as a whisper. "It's been giving me a massive headache for the past few days."

He bellowed his head into his chest and stretched out his neck. His sigh was deep, a feeling she could sense that he understood her clearly about how she was aggravated by the crimes. "Well, I do hope you will be able to solve it." He said.

"Yeah, I hope so." She continued her deadening thoughts, "that is why I am here tonight."

His eyes quirked, slightly confused.

She noticed his reaction and continued on. "It was reported that last night a murder was taken place in this casino."

"I didn't know that," he said with anxiety. His tone was a hissing like a snake. "I might not have been here last night, but I can't believe such a thing would happen." His bit the lower half of his lip and pondered for a brief moment. She knows, he thought, she knows about it and everything...just as planned. Now was the next step.

"I think a friend of mine though might have been there last night—he could be a good witness."

"Can he help?"

"Sure!" He exclaimed happily. He pulled out an Apple iPhone and dialed in the numbers quickly, he listened for the tone of his voice and began to talk. It was an agile reasoning why he wanted his friend to help, and asked him questions along the way about last night. He went through his notes and tried to remember then. "Thank you so much," he said and shut his phone into silence mode.

"How was he helpful?"

Deacon sent a smile on her face while he explained the information he got.

"He said that he was in the restrooms that evening when he heard a rustle going on outside the door and wondered what it was. He followed it and found a brawl where the entrance is of the casino and saw the fight going on. It was blood and brutal, that the man who was fighting in it died while he tried to reason with him."

"So it was a fight and not a-" she paused for a brief moment. "It wasn't a serial killer thing?"

"Affirmative," he said.

She smirked. "Well I guess the info was helpful after all."

"Why? Did you get confused with something?"

She sighed and let the lemon inside the glass drop to the bottom. "Yeah, I've been stuck on _how_ they were murdered." She took a sip from her drink. "What I've found were marks on the side of their necks, but it doesn't give a brief explanation why they died."

"Oh, I see."

A faint rumbling noise came from Chanel's back pocket of her dark gray jeans—her cell phone had been going off all night that she felt like chucking it out a window or throw it into the ocean, so that she would have to hear the same vibration over and over again. She went for her back pocket and took out her silver cell phone while it rang a melody tune. The ID caller was not recognizable to Chanel and wondered who might be calling her when she was with someone she didn't know. If it was Lance, she wouldn't have the perfect excuse to get away from having to deal with explaining to her boyfriend why she was drinking with someone else other than him that evening. She flipped the phone cover with her long pedicured fingers and answered it gently.

"This is Chanel Keen."

It was Blade. How the hell did he know her number? She mumbled angrily; stupid, stupid Josef.

"Hello, Chanel. It is me, Blade."

Still, even after getting disciplined for complaining about his weird name Chanel refused to say the word, _Blade_, since it sounded like a killer's name than a normal one. Why would he choose such a name than be called by his normal name Eric? Sure, he wanted his identity kept, but did it really matter though that eventually his real name would be found?

She hissed into the phone. "Eric, what do you want?"

"I found out whom the victim was with that night."

A knot clogged her throat. "You did already?"

"Yes," he said and blabbered on about whom the people were, where they lived, what they looked like—to his exact definitions Chanel felt her stomach churn that the nausea would rise up her throat, and suffocate her along with the knot stuck to the side that throbbed in a heavily dismaying pain. He was unconcerned on what may have caused them to decide to kill the man and let Chanel do the thinking for a while. She ran through every possible answer in her head, projecting them on a screen like at a movie theater and viewed each option. The man could have betrayed them, which caused a riot within the boundaries of their friendship. Another option was that he may have misunderstood something and thought of it as being a threat. The last option was easy—the people just didn't like him and felt like disposing someone for once.

Number two seemed sane, but why would he misunderstand something that easy and would aghast hastily?

She moved her lips and licked them, pondering hard enough to reason the options. "I'm thinking that he may have misunderstood something they were talking about and felt appalled by their choosing—something like that—and then later on that night they must have killed them for being threatened."

Blade muted for a moment and pondered her thinking. "That seems reasonable."

"Want to take that info to Josef and claim it as that?"

"I'm not that sure though if I'm in dubiety or not. I think we should look more into the people's lifestyles than the man's." He said.

Chanel nodded her head and agreed. "Sure, that's fine with me."

"Okay," Blade responded and the phone line went dead.

She pushed the off button and flicked the flip phone's cover. Deacon pursed his lips in a tight arch, he wasn't too sure who would have called her and hoped it wasn't someone Chanel was dating. If so, the idea of flirting with such a beautiful woman wasn't a great plan after all. Such a beauty she was...his lips moistened, licking the ends with his pink tongue.

"Who was that?" He asked her directly in the eyes when she placed her phone next to her wrist.

Chanel took a sip from her drink to unclog the knot in her throat and gargled the liquid. She swallowed hard, but the pounding nuisance was still there. "It's some dude my boss, Josef, asked me to work with."

"For the crime case?"

"Yeah," she replied. "He's a big guy and by looking at him you would think of him as a serial killer."

"Ugh," he retorted, "I hate those kind of guys. They send goosebumps all over my arms."

Chanel spattered out, "Wait. Isn't the guy next to you on the balcony—wasn't he huge?" She asked. "He appeared to be a lot larger than you in height."

Deacon laughed, a smile approached that revealed his beautiful set of white teeth. "Oh him? He's a friend of mine—he's the guy I called."

"Him?"

"Yeah," he said. "But you don't have to worry about him, because he's good with girls. And he truly wanted to help."

"All right," she murmured and pushed the glass cup to the edge of the counter.

Deacon pushed his cup as well and leaped off the bar stool. His hands grasped into the counter and waited for Chanel to get her stuff before the left the bar, his figure slanted against the curb of the counter and let his elbows sit on top of the tiled ceramic top.

Chanel grabbed her cell phone and stuck it behind her back pocket. She quickly glanced up at the neon clock, it was eight fifty-one, enough time to get ready to examine the rest of the casino for another half hour. "It's about time I should search the place for more evidence."

"Do you still need some help?" He let his hands fly into the air. "I'm free."

"I suppose you can help out." She insisted. "We'll have to meet up with my friend along the way before we have to leave."

For an hour, Chanel and her unexpected visitor searched the casino some more to find enough evidence to prove the case as second degree, even if she wasn't too sure on what may have happened. They went behind the casino room and entered the entrance of the building and checked around the receptionist desk; Chanel briefly asked questions to the receptionist about any unusual activity going on yesterday evening. The questions were simple: had he identified or seem someone act harshly to someone? or had he seen a man get into a fight with another? scenarios. The man nodded and said that he had seen some activity, causing violence in the front of the building. He wasn't sure though if it was the exact man Chanel mentioned.

She peaked at the receptionist's computer and checked the digital clock, baffled by how long she had been investigating since she and Deacon began. She strolled away and caught up with Deacon who tilted his head and smiled right at her.

"The receptionist did see an act of violence that night, but wasn't sure if he saw the same man we were looking for."

Deacon's lips fumed, "Which leaves us where?"

"Back to square one."

"Man, I didn't think this case would be tough."

Chanel rolled her eyes and exclaimed, "For crying loud, I've been working on these cases for months, but I've never been stuck on one like this. Usually I would find out the reasons in only a matter of hours. This one, however, is a problematic one for the CSI."

"I understand that, but would the CSI be able to solve this one?"

"Obviously," she sneered. "They are a lot more intelligent than me personally."

Deacon placed his arm over her shoulder and walked her to the casino room again, his breathing was heavy and moist that his breath clung onto the hair follicles on her neck. She dipped her head down and closed her eyes tight as he brought her to the entryway of the balcony. He softly whispered into her ear, his lips almost touching her bare warm skin.

"Oh well, at least we tried."

"Yeah," she sighed. "Thanks for helping though."

"Glad to be at your service." he said, and placed his hands on her lower back.

Chanel felt his icy hands run down her lower back, sending a chilly intuitive feeling all over her petite body. She shook for minutes when his hand reached to her neck, his grasp almost choking her breath away. For once she didn't realize how strong his grip was. A voce from behind their backs exclaimed loudly, "Chanel!"

Chanel and Deacon spun around and listened for the man like voice ring their ears. Blade was only feet away by the time Chanel caught a good sight of the man holding a fist in his left hand. Deacon, however, looked away for a split second and turned his direction to Chanel; he was wearing a slim pair of aviator glasses that shield his beautiful eyes. Why? She wondered, why is he wearing sunglasses when he isn't outside? The situation was already disorienting, she felt her forehead throb a fiery heat that spread to her cheeks and neck.

Blade muttered to Chanel impulsively, "Are you ready to go? It's nine twenty-five already and I think your boyfriend wants you home by now." He stared at the man wearing sunglasses and growled under his breath.

Chanel could hear Deacon's chest growl like a ferocious lion ready to attack. It frightened her, prior to what was happening she let her arm loosen Deacon's grip on her shoulder and cupped his hands together with hers. "I might as well be going, it is kind of late. I don't get to Fremont until eleven at night."

Deacon's lips furiously mumbled, his sight directly aiming at Blade's scrutinized face. "Okay, it was nice meeting you. Hope we see each other sometime again."

"Yes, I would like that." She agreed. Her glare was now towards Blade and she grab bed onto his wrist, pulling towards the back of the casino where her car was parked. "Come one, Blade, let's go."

The sight of them both leaving left a crater in Deacon's chest; he couldn't breathe now that she was leaving with someone she was working with. It wasn't that she was beautiful and his moment of emotions didn't spew out of his chest—it was that man she was with—he seemed recognizable. if her theory is correct, that man was someone he had faced before.

Other than that—the girl he was hanging along with was the Chanel Keen _they_ have been looking for since the data of his files went missing. After all this time he had found her, exactly as planned to get some relevance of info off her. A few things was enough, enough to surprise her with fake info he had given her about his friend being a witness, because they were the ones who caused the problem. His plan had worked and now it as into plan B—getting Chanel.

Mercury and Quinn emerged from behind the balcony pillars and sauntered towards Deacon, smiling devilishly.

"I knew I would be finding you one day, Chanel," Deacon devilishly hissed. He turned his direction to his familiars. "The plan will go as planned—we go to Fremont _tonight_."


	5. 5: INTRUDER

_If a man's wit be wandering, let him study the mathematics. - Francis Bacon_

**5: Intruder**

It was eleven past ten by the time Chanel had drove home that evening, it was a quiet drive from the edge of Hampton Beach where the casino sat, to the borders of Fremont where her boyfriend was soundly asleep at her house. Peace relaxed her mind, she was thankful that Blade didn't say anything else that would have disturb her peaceful moment—she would have hated that. However, it was Blade that had been acting unusual ever since the left the casino. When reacting to the guy, Deacon, she met Blade thought of his intuition of being a blasphemy if he were to tell her. He seemed too familiar, so familiar that he wanted to rip off the guys aviator sunglasses and reveal the real man he convinced himself was.

It had to be him all this long, he said to himself, covering his eyes with his set of slick sunglasses. He didn't want to show how he really felt after this. His throat clogged up his air tubes from breathing, rasping, heavenly defeated by his emotions which wasn't a normal thing for him to go through. Even for Chanel she though of his reaction quite intense that she couldn't dare to look at his face and ask what was wrong. It was as if a demon had taken over his body—every body part from head to toe—and told his mind to do certain things the demon pleased.

Chanel leaned her head against the seat and stood still for a moment while handing the steering wheel tightly. Her chest heaved out a yawn, imperiously bored by the fact that she and Blade hadn't talked all night other than at the casino. She desperately wanted to know what was wrong with Blade. Even if she asked him, his response would have been the opposite of his impression—or possibly wouldn't say anything at all since he was as stubborn as ever. That didn't change a fact. And she figured it was going to be like that for the next couple of days if she were to work with him.

A gravel road appeared out of the blurred vision of her sight, and she pulled into the driveway quietly without waking Lance up. His car was parked inside the garage, it was an offer she gave him whenever she was out for the night late. She turned off the ignition and waited for a response from Blade. His eyes were lined up with the ancient house.

"Would you like to stay at my house for the night if you don't have anywhere to go?"

He shook his head. "I'm all set, but thank you. A friend of mine is picking me up with my car."

"Okay," she said. "But still, if you need anything, it is fine with me."

She crawled out of the car and took out the house keys, whirling them between her index and middle fingers. She went up to the green door and put the keys into the lock, rocking the door knob back and forth, and opened the door for Blade to enter. They ended up in the living room of the house, a quaint size room with a Victorian style antique wallpaper featuring angiosperm designs and a mahogany border. Parted in the middle was a pile of newspapers in top of a wooden coffee table, layered by recent dates and crimes that were known to the cases Chanel was working on. The ceiling was a faint yellow mixed with white, and the furniture were by ten years outdated, worn in the corners of the peg size legs. The floor had a peachy color and traced muddy marks from dirty shoes and feet imprints from going outside barefooted. The feet imprints, however, were not in the form of a humans foot but instead an animal's paw.

Chanel tossed the keys into a small wicker basket and threw her jacket onto the lounge chair beside her. Blade examined the rest of the old fashioned room, and spotted a framed picture hung above the TV set—not as outdated as the furniture, but it was a good as five years old—of a slightly good looking man and girl whose hair was cropped to her neckline and had black hair back then. Blade laughed, knowing who the girl was.

"I see you had a taste for style," he joked.

Chanel snapped her head up and noticed the picture Blade was commenting about. she laughed. "Ha, yeah, I remember those days. It's change over time."

His face retched and fixed the picture, he positioned the frame and made it align with the other pictures on the wall. "How old were you in this?"

"Twenty."

His eyes widened underneath his shades. "And how old are you _now_?"

"Twenty-four. I'm turning twenty-five in at least a week."

"That's quite interesting," he said, and removed his sunshades. "A young woman like you is that smart and good looking?"

"Please," she mocked, enunciating her words deeply. "I'm not that bright all the time and I don't have the looks of a perfect model."

"But you are very good looking—I will not lie about that."

"Thanks." She murmured. Her words were melting in her throat.

Blade glanced up at the silver clock above the couch and slid his sunglasses through his leather jacket. He grinned for a brief moment for he was leaving too soon and wanted to make sure Chanel would be fine along. His hunch had caught up to him sooner than expected. "Do you want me to stay around for a while, just in case someone tries to break in?"

Chanel baffled, unclear by what he meant by staying with her in case intruders break in. Was he holding a grudge or a hunch? She slid her fingers through her hair and looked to the side of Blade where she saw the door wide open. The intruding feeling sent a fear bolt throughout her chest. "I guess you could stay for a while." She yawned loudly. "I might be heading for the sack for tonight, and anyway, you don't have a place to go." She patted on the couch cushion and pulled out a blanket from the woven basket behind the couch. "You can stay here for now until tomorrow."

"Thank you." he said.

"It's my pleasure to help."

Blade made himself comfortable on the small antique couch—it was more plush than the couch at his place he usually slept on—he feet relaxed off the edging of the sofa's handle and let his arms extend behind his back. The pink lavish blanket covered his entire body like a protective shield, his legs however were exposed since the blanket wasn't hard enough to cover from the head down. It was only suited to cover the body horizontally. He stretched and sat on the couch, prying for an intruder to break in so that he could make the first attack before the uninvited visitor would make any other move.

The house remained quiet while Chanel slid up the stairs to her bedroom, her bed was inches away from her feet, a queen size bed enough to fit in two people as in Lance and herself. And what she had expected was for Lance to be sleeping soundly underneath the soothing bed sheets. He head leaned against the soft pillow and snored loudly, the he himself couldn't hear is annoying snore. He was fast asleep.

Chanel went to her dresser and pulled out a set of gray cotton shorts and a white tee, clothed herself speedily, and slid underneath the white sheets of her bed. Lance mumbled a few words Chanel could briefly define, his voice was tiring and his lips outlined a hardening frown. His body twisted and turned by the time she set herself comfortably in her bed. All at once, the movement stopped, which was then replaced by an exhausting voice.

"Chanel?" he mumbled.

She turned to the side and caught his glint. "It's me."

"What time is it?"

"Eleven thirty."

"Gee, I'd thought you would be here sooner?"

"I've made a place for Blade to sleep here tonight."

Lance's body trembled and darted up, staring down at Chanel like a watchdog. "Blade is sleeping over here tonight?"

"He doesn't have a place to stay, Lance." She informed. "I'd thought I would be nice enough and let him sleep on the couch."

His lips flamed with cursing and aggravated words, his hands tossed into the air. "Then I might as well have slept in the basement if this was happening."

She hissed under her breath and covered the sheets over her shoulders, her head still peaking from the slit of the sheets. "Well, I am sorry that I had to ruin your night. I can't see the man stand out on the streets along at night."

"And I thought you _hated_ Blade in the first place?"

Her body stayed enact with the bed covers. "I used to, but as for now I want to be nice and let him stay. Why? Did you overhear that from Josef?"

"Yeah, he told me before I left. He said you caused a lot of problems for this man to start the investigation with you."

"One reason," she expressed. "Is because his real name is Eric and he would rather prefer to be called upon as Blade. Don't you think that's a little silly? I mean—his name is after a knife for heaven's sake!"

Lance crouched into fetal position on the bed, digging his chin into his knees. His hands fumbled with his finger while still com plaining at Chanel, whose behavior was getting out of hand, and decided not to fight anymore by instead sat calm and explain to her why. "Does it really matter about awkward names?"

"For Pete's sake, Lance, he looks like a fuckin' serial killer!"

"Then why did you let him in?"

Her voice went silent, and she had no response after that. Her head hid underneath the silk fabric, humiliated by Lance's point.

"Look, Chanel. I've heard that Blade is an excellent man. Haven't you heard of the meaning _don't judge a book by it's cover?_ He's strong, fearless, and will do anything to help. Leave the man alone for once. He might have a split personality, but inside he is generous to have helped you so far."

Her eyes peeled to the side of the room and turned her body over; she wanted to avoid Lance's new point and follow her own belief. The anger filled her chest, heavily breathing while hissing swears lance wouldn't not have been able to hear with his clear ears. Lance noticed Chanel's unusual social movement and decided to let the eagerness of explaining go, since she would not have listened to him anyway. He pulled the covers on top of his heated body and fell asleep once more, this time with feeling. His nostrils flared and his eyes stayed intense while staring up at the ceiling.

- - - - -

Luckily, Blade did not overhear Chanel and Lance's argument that night for he was wide away with avidity. His eyes concentrated on the doors frame and watched it every three minutes to make sure nobody would invade the still house; he wasn't tired at all—not even a yawn flowed from his lips. As being a thing as he mentioned before, sleep wasn't a big prior to his lifestyle, he loved staying up late at night and watch the city of New Your below his window. His daily duty was to keep watch for any violent acts evoking the town's nocturnal people who would go to clubs at night and hang out with their friends at a bar. He wanted the world to be peaceful, but it wasn't which is why he was help to those who liked him as a rescuer to their kind.

This, however, brought back depressing memories on how he used to love rescuing humans from inadequate and adequate danger. Oh, how the people would respond to his courage! They'd worship him as an idol. But for now, this was something he wanted to do for a friend in need of help. He wanted to help Josef find out what was causing all these murders within weeks and days—and even hours. Each hour a new murder is evoked, and sends threat throughout the towns, sending people away fro good so their their safety would be a major thing on the to-do list. he'd risk his life for anything.

Even this, staying at Chanel's house to keep watch from unexpected visitors.

He missed home, he missed fighting, he missed Karen most of all. Just by thinking of her at the Casino brought back memories he loved about her—she was intelligent, a doctor of some sort of hospital whom now banned him from going into the hospital any further, and her beauty was also a remark he noted. But it was probable because she was exposed to his world, she may have ran away as planned and moved somewhere far away from him­, change her name and her job position. But who knows if she really did or not. If only she were hear, he would ask curiously what she thought of him: a beast or a hero?

It was one in the morning by the time Blade had paced back and forth in the living room, still pondering more about Karen. His stomach growled for food (or water, but any liquid would suit him.) and quietly tip toed into the kitchen. He checked the fridge for anything appetizing, but by the looks of it the fridge was swept clean from any food products. his stomach churned and growled more, which made Blade rip through the pantry cabinets for food. There were a box of pretzels and an open bag of vinegar and salt chips in the back of the cabinet, but nothing satisfied hie adoring taste buds. There had to be something in here that he would like. He checked underneath the counter and opened another pantry door, revealing a set of soda that wasn't used or old. He took out one of the cans and opened it with his scrubby fingers. The carbonated soda flowed down his dry throat, a sense of relief after breathing through his mouth for hours. He finished the can, satisfied, and examined the brand he thought was delicious.

Before long, the sound of a window cracking (or breaking completely) perked Blades ears up. His hand that held the soda can smashed into a withered piece of rubbish. His teeth clenched together and his chest inhaled the sweet air heavily. It was just as he expected—an invasion by an uninvited guest or guests.

He flew through the living room and stood still, listening deeply to the noise that woke his mind up from pondering. It was quiet for a few seconds until another noise pounded on the floor; it was the noise of feet scrambling from one place to another­...and it was coming from upstairs. His eyes grew vivid, grabbed a gun from underneath the coffee table , and stalked upstairs while holding onto the gun placed next to his side. He gaited up the stairs restfully without evoking the intruders to notice his feet pounding on the creaky stairs. Still silent filled the room when he reached to the top, his hand placed on the bedroom door—which was shut tight—and turned the door knob slowly. Then, his elbow slammed on the door and leaped in.

Chanel and Lance were up as well, rampaging through their bedside drawers and pulled out what looked like guns, the edging of the guns were faint with patterns, but sleek like the professional investigators used. Chanel turned her back at Blade while looking for her laptop on the overcrowded desk. She pulled out a red Dell laptop and snug it between her tan arms.

"What are you doing?" Lance yelled at Chanel.

"I'm getting my laptop!"

"At a time like this? Why bother with it when we should be running for our lives?"

"Lance!" Chanel screamed, "I need the crime files—I bet that those burglars are here to get them!"

Blade walked near Chanel and hovered over her. "You mean the people you suspect as the serial killers?"

"I do believe so, I need them." She pulled out a USB drive from the desk drawer and tugged it into her brown jacket. "If I loose the files we'll be screwed."

"Okay, you have everything you need?" Blade asked, gesturing with his hands. Chanel nodded back and pushed Blade aside with her gun aiming at his chest.

"Let's go," she said, and motivated Blade to go ahead before her.

Blade signaled Lance to come forward and started ahead of the pack, checking each corner of the cramped hallways as he kept the other two behind his back. His hand thrashed out and pushed Lance farther back; he sensed that something was coming towards them while camouflaged in the dark shadows of the room. He maneuvered closer to the shadow and whipped out a thin sliver sword from his back. The engraved edging of the handle attracted Chanel's eyes the details were so extraordinary that she wanted to handle it too. Suddenly, a click sound came from the handle, bewildered, she continued to stare at the beautiful sword.

Blades heart thumped hard, his breathing was roguish as he breathe on Chanel's neck. The moist accumulated on the hair follicles of her cheek. Lance lingered himself in closer to Chanel's body and hugged her, his arms wrapped around her tiny figure as a protection shield from any harmful object. Abruptly, a noise popped out, which sent their hearts racing faster than ever.

"Quick! Get downstairs!" Lance exclaimed. He tossed Chanel onto the first few steps of the staircase, when she then loss her balance and trembled on her feet, and motivated Blade from behind to follow him.

Chanel sprinted down the stairs while carefully handling the laptop she needed, panting as her breath started to loose control, her eyes formed moisture around the lids and a break of sweat drooled from her brow. She looked back and grabbed onto Lance's wrist, dragging him along with her.

"We have to get to the car before it's too late!" She said, and waited at the bottom of the staircase for Blade to show up.

Lance leaned forward while gasping for air. "O...Okay." His head shined from the sweat forming on his forehead, wiped it clean, and pulled Chanel into his chest. His lips touched hers—a bitter lemon tate toutched her tongue. The bitterness was something she couldn't handle. It was too much to absorb like a sponge, all the pressure and intensity going through her head.

She guided her wet fingers on his chin, pulling him forward closer to her mouth, and gave another heroic kiss. Their lips parted when Blade interuped the moment Chanel wanted to last longer than a few seonds. His hand wrenched out and seperated the lovecouple from pursuing any more interactions involving with kissing—a thing he had disgusted for a while, as of now had it all changed? Seeing Karent pop up in his head once in a while, the images flashed out in front of him, karen desperatley wondering what is going on. He saw her heart shaped face, the gloom in her eyes as her curiosity continued to ponder the place. Her voice was as faint as the wind that Blade couldn't unify the exact words she was saying.

The words were glued to his toungue like super glue, none made sense as he mumbled them softly to himself. When the vision of Karen vanished within his drab eyes, his mouth watered, the knot in his throat formed and was harder to swallow down with saliva. Would she know what is going on to this exact moment of slow moving time? Why would she appear like a ghostly figure, while curiously scanning his reaction? The answer was opaque that nothing formed into the right words to say.

He shook his head immediately after going through a ravenous moment, and cocked his head to the side where he heard another noise coming from the upsatirs and down.

"Chanel," he whispered.

Chanel's head snapped in his direction. "What is it?"

"Get the keys, run outside to the car, and start it right away while Lance and I search the rest of the house. No looking back or hesitating!" He hissed, a muffle came after.

"I will," she said, and went for the basket where she placed her keys, and bolted for the door.

As she promissed, she didn't look back, she didn't hesitate, and with bravery at her side, she dashed to the car and swung the door open. She put the keys into the ignition and the car roared to life. That was the only task she was asked to do, something simple, not too baleful enough to get her killed on the spot...then her ears perked up when she heard a noise of a gun going off. The sound send a shock of affright up her spine, realzing whom may have shot the gun. Panick, she didn't have to panick. it could have been Blade who may have accidentally triggered the gun. But instantly when she had just started the car up? She kept the car door open and the car running on the last few gallons of gas left inside the tank, and ran up the gravel path and to the front door. She turned the knob without hesitating and jumped inside the echoing living room.

It was empy. Not a human inside. Chanel's stomach churned intensely, vomit wanting to come up her throat.

"Blade?" She whispered, her voice faint in the echoing room.

Subsequently, she tip toed around the premaces of the room, listening to any abrupting noise. "Blade?" She called again.

A clacking noise percolated her ears, and Chanel ran to the other room while trying to be quiet at the same time. Down the hallway the noise continued, ruffle sounds of feet sliding on the carpet floor, along with stifle voices barely heard from Chanel's ulterior position. Slowly, her feet thumped on the peachy carpet, a form of static electricity formed inside her body queasy enough to see the things lurking her house. Her heat beated faster than a normal heart, her pulse moved rapidly up her arms and to her neck. The small of her back strained from movement, and the hairs on her neck rose. Her face was completley damp of wet moisture, hotness grew under her bare skin.

She was deathly afraid. it had been too quiet for a fraction of a second.

Then, out of nowhere from the drakness of the shadows a grip took her neck, her face was lurched back while covered with a thick hand. Her head snapped as she tried to free herself from the mortal grasp of someone's hand. However, her mind didn't send the threat message to her muscles to move. It was a feeble voice she could hear, velvety and loely—and it sounded familiar that Chanel could not believe it. It couldn't be, she moaned.

His voice attracted her, she was desperate to get away, but his grip dug into her fine skin that a few drops came from his fingernails. he leaned in closer to whisper into Chanel's ear. Suddenly, a white cloth with remesence of mildew stuff covered the woman's mouth. He held it tight while grabbing her jaw. She couldn't get away, she was done for. Sahe lost the battle. Her eyes began to droop, knowing what would happen next. Her breath started to fade away.

"Whatever you do," Deacon warned, hissing like a snake. "Do not scream." And in only a matter of minutes, the woman he had been holding limbed in his arms.


	6. 6: UNAWARE

Sorry it took me a while to finish this chapter. I had some 'last minute' schoolwork to get out of the way now that school is done this week. However, thank you for being patient. Thank you for reading the next chapter as well as the comment(s) so far. I appreciate them! -Caitlyn

* * *

_Observe your enemies, for they first find out your faults. -Anthisthenes_

**6: Unaware**

"How much chloroform did you use?" a woman's voice asked disquietly, crackly at the end but visible to hear.

"I'm not that entirely sure," a man said. He was being truthful, and by showing it, he held out his hands in offering. "She seemed to be fine."

"Well, right now she's unconsciousness. You call that _fine_?"

Had it been a dream she couldn't exhort out of her mind, or was she really unconscious? She couldn't feel anything, so she must have been dreaming. But that happens too when a person goes unconscious. There was no literal answer, as though she was in some critical state she couldn't define off her tongue, the wonder her mind went from reality to cipher. It was as if her body was intoxicated, that each movement her body tried to translate didn't occur at all.

As for the most disorienting part, the memory from that night she couldn't remember. She remembered Lance and Blade, but nothing after.

"Define the meaning to this and I'll admit that I used too much chloroform on the poor girl. How's that?"

The woman bit the lower half of her lip, pondering, and snapped her head towards his existence. "All right," she hissed. Her hand trailed on the girl's arm, goose bumps rose and a chilly front covered her exposed skin. "I don't know how to define it, but you _did_ use too much chloroform."

"Shut the hell up!" He yelled, "I can easily tell by her looks. I'm not a dumb blonde like you!"

A growl rumbled in her chest.

"Look, is it treatable?"

"She seems to be doing fine; I think there won't have to be any treatment for this."

Her eyes fluttered open, but all she could see was a blur of colors flashing at her eyes. The images were smudged that she couldn't determine who the people were. However, it was the hearing of voices she was able to understand. And clearly, she knew who was the man speaking of her. Her hand slowly moved to her sides, rubbing the fresh bruises forming on her tan skin, flickering her eyes once more and was able to see the image ahead. Her mouth went dry by his appearance—he looked battered up with emotions he couldn't leave alone. Most apparently, his emotions were furious that Chanel tried to move away, but it was something she couldn't do. Not only couldn't she tell herself to mover her legs, but also whatever pinned her down had a tough marble like strength. It was a hand, and it was _his_ hand.

Thankfully, he wasn't able to notice Chanel's conscious.

The woman—a brightly colored blonde-haired person with fine features—gazed up at him in his hazel eyes. "So what did you do with those two? Blade and that Lance boy she seems to know?" Her thin fingers pointed to Chanel.

"Nothing really, only I locked them in a closet."

"What?" Her voice shouted.

"What the hell did you want me to do?" He yelled, "that asshole was about to take a blow at _my_ head!"

The woman shrugged. "Fuck! You've screwed us all!"

His eyes beamed wide in horror. "I'm sorry! Please, don't kill me already!"

"We won't." The man with the luscious voice sighed, aggravated. "You're dumb enough to fuck everything up anyway."

Chanel squirmed by his tone, and the lids of her eyes opened freely by sight of his moving hand caressing her arm. She bit her tongue hard, making it bleed a little, the rusted taste sent nausea in her eyes. Her throat swelled, unaware of what words to say because whom she was seeing frightened her. And at first, trusted.

He smiled down at her, noting her unexpected awakening, his hand trailed along her collarbone. A sweat bead formed on her forehead. The blonde also noticed Chanel's arousal movements, and stalled where she was close to hugging Deacon.

"She's awake." The blonde motioned the red head from the back to come forward, but he didn't dare to move after the argument they just had.

Deacon's lips pulled into a devilish grin. "What a surprise to see you awake already."

Chanel's eyes squinted, and her lips moved faintly. The words managed to flow out like water. "Stop being sarcastic, please. It get's annoying."

Abruptly, the blonde began to chuckle, her head jab into Deacon's shoulder blade while the humiliation filtered Deacon's furious expression.

"Mercury!" He yelled.

"Sorry," she sobbed, still laughing. "But I do agree with her."

"You. Fuckin. Piece. Of. Shit." He enunciated, the fury his eyes held, narrowing at Chanel. "If you want me to be more sarcastic, I'll be happy to do so."

Chanel flinched at his words. "I was only joking." she murmured. She grabbed onto the plush of the sofa she was laying on, trying to push herself up.

"I don't take jokes as an excuse."

She flinched again, and this time, flashed her hands out as a defense shield while covering her chest from any blow he was about to endure.

"But seriously, you were unconscious for about three days."

Chanel couldn't defy to ask him why.

"Merc," he motioned with his index finger. "Grab me a pair of handcuffs."

Mercury pranced to the other end of the room, next to the ancient fireplace was an oak desk with papers and files tossed around as if a hurricane hit the place, and opened the drawer where a shiny pair of clean, silver handcuffs dangled in her hands. She came back with pleasure on her face and handed the cuffs to Deacon, who then opened each of the ends and heaved Chanel forward to pull back her arms behind her back and overlap her hands together to cuff them. Chanel sneered by his behavior.

"I don't this is necessary to do."

Deacon's lips pulled into a thick line. "It will be for the time being."

"How long?"

"A long time." was all he said as an answer to her question.

After her hands remained cuffed in the ice-cold handcuffs, she slumped into the black couch, eying the place around. It reminded her of home, simple and antique, but with a touch of modern style in some parts of the room. The style was her type of taste, simple but yet elegant. Her mouth parted, almost smiling. Slaphappy, she thought. It had been a while since she listened to her feelings, yet it wasn't that intriguing to be a bolt from the blue and appear as her conscience. For whatever that meant.

Deacon wrapped his fingers around Chanel's wrists, making sure that the locks were secure.

"What are we going to do with her? She can't sleep here for the rest of her life." Mercury guessed.

The words made Chanel cringed. The rest of her life…what a way to get her hopes up.

"How about the guest bedroom?" The red head presumed; his face was inches away from Mercury's. "I think that will be a perfect place to stay. And she has a room to her own."

"And treat her like a good house guest?"

"Yeah—like that."

Deacon narrowed his eyes. "Not going to happen."

At the reaction, their heads jerked with baffled looks on their faces, an expression Chanel could understand. She was just as baffled as they were. What was she? A house _pet_? Was Deacon purposely treating her like a caged animal?

Quinn's face was blank all over, unsure of the exact sentence to say as a comeback. "No? Why?"

"I don't trust her being _alone_."

"And…what will you do then?" Quinn stuttered on the words as if they weren't meant to come out.

Deacon's expression stayed as normal, nothing changed, his devilish smile was the only thing that dispersed and instead replaced with a thick line. Tawdrily, his reply turned fierce. "She's staying in _my_ room for the time being."

Chanel's eyes drooped now that she was to stay with a man who now wanted to harm her, and for whatever reason he acted this way she didn't feel as comfortable as before; the trust she had wasn't the same as it was three nights ago. Personality couldn't change that quickly, for his it did. And that questioned her for moments until Deacon's hand slithered up her back. She quivered from the cold sense of his hands. Blood surged through her veins, rapidly pounding for mercy and hope.

Mercury passed by Deacon and lifted Chanel from the couch, trying to be harmless to the girl and acted like a polite woman who would care to help. She beckoned, "If she's going to stay in your room, then I might as well try to make her as comfortable as possible."

"Please," Deacon hissed. "She's not a family member for fucks sake."

"But we should treat her fairly like a member of the household."

His eyes rolled clockwise, and plucked out a cigarette and lit it at the end. He inhaled furiously, shunning Chanel by giving her a snub of dismay. "Whatever, do whatever you want."

Mercury's eyes tightened and pulled the young girl along with her by her elbow, walking her to a set of stairs that lead to the upper part of the house. It looked the same as the first floor, just smaller by size and a hallway with three or more doors to different rooms—hopefully, there wasn't a torture chamber and Chanel cringed at the thought. Her head formed a sweat bead and it rolled down her cheek like a lonesome raindrop in a desert.

"Just ignore him." Mercury contended the girl. "He's been acting weird lately since he had no success with finding the files for his computer."

At first, Mercury planned to leave the girl in Deacons room, but when she got to the bedroom door, a change of action took place and she veered in the opposite direction.

"And I'm not letting that man keep you locked up in his disheveled room. You'll feel better in the spare room we have at the end of the hallway."

At the end of the short hallway, Mercury went up to the door and turned the knob to the door, letting Chanel take the first few steps into the master sized room. It had a modern fine look, the walls were a dark shade of gray like the color of charcoal, and the furniture had a white touch to the fabric, casting a bold affection to the black furniture. A large window grew out towards the front, shedding a dim light into the room. On her right was where a desk stood against the wall with her laptop on the surface; to her left was the king size bed, covered in silk white fabric and overstuffed pillows. There were no vases or flowers—just a simple modern room with a clock and a small flat screen TV hung from the ceiling.

She paced around the room slowly and sat down on the soft bed. Her hands damped from the cuffs clinging to her bare skin. Mercury sauntered towards a dressers and opened drawer, pulling out clothing one by one. She folded them in a pile and placed them next to Chanel.

"You might as well those soiled clothing and get into a fresh pair." She said compassionately, hoping the girl wasn't as frightened as she was before.

Chanel stared down at the pile of clothing—a simple navy blue polo and gray faded pants. By looks from Mercury apparel now, she did have contemporary modest chic attire.

"Your room comes with a bathroom, so you won't have to worry about the communal one down the hallway." She pointed out with her index finger and stalked away towards the door.

Chanel shook her handcuffs, reminding Mercury for a split second and un-cuffs them with a spare key. The cuffs come off like silk sliding down her hand.

"I'll come by to check up on you to see if you are okay," she alleged, and stalked away, closing the door from behind.

Chanel stares down at her chest, spotting the soiled splotches on her shirt, pants and her arm. She _did_ need a cleanup. Walking around like this for next couple of days—or weeks, or months?—wouldn't be that fresh looking for her new housemates currently as their inmate.

She grabs the pile of clothing, stuffs them underneath her arm, and strolls to the bathroom. The bathroom was just as beautiful as the bedroom, except with gray tiles, and silhouette on the shower curtain. She strips down her grubby clothing, tosses them into a small pile in the corner of the bathroom, closing the curtains behind her, and turns on the water faucet to the showerhead.

She cleaned through her body, scrubbing the blotched spots on her shoulders and legs. Her hair was perfectly damped to be washed with the florescent shampoo stocked on the shower shelves; she squirts out the shampoo from the opaque bottle and massages her scalp, letting the strands of hair fall on her face.

Within her five-minute range, she felt clean enough to dress in her fresh new borrowed clothing. She clothed on the polo shirt and pants, and cradled her old clothing out of the bathroom. It was then when the room went silent. It was her alone time—if she ever had that option here.

Next to the desk was a metal rubbish bin, and she tosses her old clothing into the tiny cylinder.

It was nice to be alone, but it wasn't that she was upset about; it was the fact that being in a house she never recognized made her queasy about being alone period. If only it hadn't gone on this road…she moans. She puts her fingers to her soft lips and stands still in the middle of the room, unsure of what to do next but to sit and wait for whatever the new outcome was to happen.

- - - -

The Dodge car Lance was seated in speeds down a drifted traffic highway, and what seemed to be the longest day of his life. Emotions fled through his eyes. He was astonished by what had just ensued.

"Blade," he moaned loudly. "Go faster."

"I am going as fast as I can. This car isn't handled to go over one-hundred-and-twenty. And trust me, I've tried it before." He notified, having the joke at the end appear more realistic.

"Well, it feels like we are going _extremely_ slow."

"No really," he corrected. "We're over one-hundred-and-five"

"For Christ's sake, _Eric_." He enunciated. "Her life is at stake."

Blade nodded his head, and swallowed hard. "First of all, don't call me Eric unless we are around some idiot bloodsuckers. And secondly, she will be fine."

"How would you know?"

He gulped at the question, knowing what the exact answer is. Moreover, it brought a flashback of her appearing through the rearview mirror. He choked on the words he was about to say when he saw that flashback of that horrid time he suffered through the same situation. "I—I went through the same thing…eleven years ago."

Lance gulped hard. "You did?"

He shook his head.

Lance came close to saying something until Blade made up his mind.

"It was a…friend who was in trouble. I had to go through some fuckin' nuisance just to get to her. Not only that, but with me also getting caught and stuck in her troubling position, it was hard for her to bare and witness me getting my ass kicked by a pair of _leeches_." He startles at the last sentence. "Yeah, I might have saved her, but I still go through those memories a lot, and those memories are meant to be thrashed—for her sake I went through the pain so she wouldn't."

"Damn," Lance grined. "I never realized it was that bad."

"As for Chanel, she has a chance since she's an agent. She might get out of it sooner than we expect."

"Let's just pray to God and hope."

"Agree." was all that Blade had left to say. He plucks out a black cell phone from the dashboard and hand it to Lance, informing him to contact Josef about the plan he devised. Lance flips the phone cover and dials in the numbers one by one, and waits for a dial tone on the other end. The phone rings and picks up a males voice.

"Lance?" Josef answered.

"Yeah, it's me." He puts the phone in the coffee holder and turns the volume into speakerphone.

Josef's voice raided the car piercingly. "Oh thank heavens you are okay!" He sighed, "How is Chanel? Is she all right."

There was a moment of silent for that part. The muting sound concerned Josef deeply into the abyss of his alarm. "Lance?" He questioned again. "_Is_ Chanel okay?"

"About that…" Lance explained. The words turned into mesh afterward. "We have a backup plan though."

"What backup plan? Where is Chanel? What is—"

"Josef!" Lance curtailed him quickly. "We're going to get Chanel, but we need your help."

"My help?"

"Yes." He said.

Josef choked on the response. "How am I to help? I'm not that good with problems like this."

Lance laughed devilishly. "You will once you get here. Meet Blade and I at the old state shed in Exeter; he has a friend of his whose there getting ready."

No retort or comeback afterward. Lance sighed. Had Josef given up already? For once Lance had never seen Josef behave this way before; there were times when Josef did feel like separating himself from situations he didn't like, this one, however, wasn't the way he propose this. He needed him more than he needed Blade. Without him, there was no way Chanel would make it.

A coughing sound came through and Josef beget to differ the problem.

"I could do that, but I would also like _Blade_ to come down to the station if we need the provisions."

"He's got everything prepared ahead of time." Lance recalled. "Josef, you have nothing to worry about. We've got people already who can help. Just send down a couple of armed force men with you and we'll be set to go."

"All right," he said. "I'm on my way."

The phone clicks, a dial tone came after.

Lance pushed the off button for the speakerphone and looked out the opaque window, noticing that the car was pulling up to a state shed, deserted in the front, appearing to seem innocuous. But whatever was in the inside held more than the exterior of the shed. And more meant gullible secrets.

The car came to a sudden halt, and Blade exited the car without a word, opening the trunk in the back. He pulled out a black coach bag along with a sword covered in a leather holder. Lance leaped out of the car and grabbed his backpack stored with equipment he presumed would be useful for the next mission of his.

"Let's head inside," Blade insisted, whipping the trunk hood down.

They both sauntered to the metal door open wide, and entered the building. A musty smell filled Lances lungs, his nose twitch a few times until he was able to maintain with the smell. The building wasn't that old, but a few rust spots were spotted here and there. Mostly the building was covered in blankets of plastic and cloth sheets, covering appliances and card stored away in the corner. At the near center was a work mechanic station.

His ears perked up when he heard the sound of a muffling voice from behind a sealed door. He cringed for a moment when Blade swift by him and opened the door. Inside was an office space, a desk covered in layers of paper and an old dell computer on top. Sitting in a squeaky rusted chair was an old man, his gray hair reached to the small of his back, and his dark eyes danced all over the place and stopped when he spotted the men sitting in the corner. He motioned with his finger to wait while he talked on the camel phone. A few times of yes's, no's, and mmm's sounded the room with alarm when Blade lurched over the fake wooden desk. The old man hung up on the phone a minute later and rolled his chair in Blades direction.

The man appeared not too happy when he swathe young aged boy sitting in the corner, his hand clamped onto his backpack, shivering. His narrowed eyes peered at Blade. "What did you do now?" He asked loutishly, his accent was hasty and gruff compared to Blade's.

Blade mumbled, too faint for Lance's ears.

"You know why I am here for, Whistler." He evoked the old man.

Whistler spun in his chair in circles; boredom fell on his face. "As if I really know what is going on."

Blade cocked his head, looking straight at Lance with no emotion. He motioned the man with his hand to hither forward.

"Whistler," he said. "This is Lance Gernard, the girl's boyfriend. He's come here to ask for your help as well as I agreed."

Whistler smiled. "Is she the girl who didn't like you?"

Lance gagged up a laugh and stopped all of a sudden to avoid any more from causing trouble. He hither forward to the desk, his hand clamped together behind his back while still clutching the backpack. "Chanel is very picky when it comes to assistants."

"I couldn't agree more." Whistler laughed. He fiddled with a pen in his hand and narrowed his eyes at the man. "So what do you need my help for, Lance?"

He jostled his position, his back stern to an uncomforting point. Blade understood the response he was giving, and instead was helpful enough to do the talking for Lance.

"Chanel Keen was abducted."

His eyes broadened at the response. He asked calmly, "You're kidding me?"

"I'm not. We are what we call witnesses to the kidnapping…if we weren't locked in a closet for the time being of-"

"Wait!" Whistler truncated. "You were _locked_ in a closet?"

"Some assholes decided to invade the place for the night and lock us in a hot closet that was hard to breathe in. You think I had fun trying to get us out?"

Whistler shook his head. "That's just bullshit. How and why? And mainly_ who_?"

Blade expected a question like that to come from him at this certain time; already prepared with an answer, he leaned in closer to Whistler, softly but clearly, murmured. "Deacon."

At the response, Whistler's eyes bulged out again, completely baffled without words. "Are you saying that Frost is _not_ dead?" He yelled at the top of his lungs.

Blade shook his head.

"So after all of this time sure enough that no son of a bitch like him would come back from the dead, we find him particularly the one to be alive again?"

Again, Blade showed the same expression and gesture, his head nodding back and forth.

Whistler wobbled his head also. "Fuck. What did we do wrong?"

"I don't know," Blade said. "But he's not that happy now."

"Why?"

"The Apocalypse files are missing."

"I'd figure that would have been the reason."

With pressure building up inside of him, Lance slams his hands on the hallow table, his palms burned. "Are you going to help get my girlfriend back or what?" His patients fell out the window then.

Blade and Whistler both cringed at the uprooting behavior of his. Shocked, no words fell out of their mouths; not even the sound of gasping air from their lungs.

"Look, if you are going to help me get my girlfriend back, you might as well be more serious than this. Who gives a shit about this guy? He doesn't even know us."

From what appeared to work at first wasn't the same comeback he expected afterward from Blade. He puffed a breath of air from his lungs and sighed. "Lance," Blade said. "Chanel _did_ know him, but not a lot to see who he was truly."

Whistler's eyes looked back up at him, confused. Blade explained more.

"The night when we were at the casino, she was with some guy apparently a bit older than you but fine looking. I couldn't make out why it was she was with, because his eyes were shield with aviator sunglasses. But when I saw the…tattoo on his neck, I knew who exactly he was right away, but didn't have the guts to admit and tell her to get away from him. I supposed this was planned ahead of time, and somehow he _knew_ her before she met him."

Lance's voice had disappeared then, a knot formed in his throat as he digested the info one by one. His eyes welled up, but not enough to shed tears at an instant. He gagged, ingesting the emotions down his throbbing throat. _What was there to say now?_ He thought. Had hopes left him too soon? But was she doing what he thought she would never do? The word was horrific, and by saying, it wouldn't help with this at all if it was all true. Was she having an _affair_? She wouldn't be—she loved him too much like a stuffed bear. She hadn't acted strangely around him or other men. So why was Blade saying all this stuff as nonsense to his intellect?

"Was she…having some sort of…affair?" He asked softly.

"Oh heaven's no. He was a _witness_ that night and wanted to help, but you can't be sure with Deacon Frost. He's got the mind of…" his words vanished away. "Never mind. You look famished anyhow."

"Yeah," Whistler agreed. "You need some rest." He switched the off button on the computer and ascended from the rickety chair. "Tomorrow we'll have Josef and you head out to the coast and observe any state of location where Frost might be."

"He actually coming over right now," Blade reminded.

"Oh, right. Then we'll have him stay over as well. We don't mind company around here these days. We just moved in a couple of weeks ago and it has been quiet for too long."

Lance grinned, yawning. "So that is why it didn't take you long to get up here from New York City."

He stretched his neck out and answered. "Yeah, we stayed here looking for some friends of ours and made ourselves home."

Whistler grabbed onto the desk and pulled out a wooden cane made with mahogany—carved on the handle was a head of a snake like animal. When he shuttered around the old rickety desk, Lance spotted the left leg of his badly injured, possibly numb without feeling or something. His leg was caged in wires and metal to support his weight whenever he walked. For once, he felt bad for the old man; in this kind of condition, he shouldn't be helping with the hunting season at all, but for him it was a lifetime pursuit for happiness. That is, if he was ever happy.

He dragged the backpack on the ground and followed Whistler out the door and into the corridor of the shed.

"Make yourself at home, Mr. Gernard." He said, limping on his bad leg. Before he would ever forget, he spun around and grabbed onto Blade's rigid elbow. His wrinkled old hands shook. "Oh, Blade. Before I forget, you have a message on the answering machine."

"Who is it?" Blade asked.

Whistler grinned, the lips of his pulled into an upside-down arch. "You'll see who it is." And walked away with Lance at his side and climbed the solid cement stairs, which lead to the balcony of the shed.

Blade turns back to the office and pratfall into the squealing rolling chair, dragging his hand on the desk and clamping it to the yellow phone. He pressed the answering machine button as he waited for the telecaster to finish its babbling, and listened to the message quietly, without sound that would disturb his piece.

Then, his heart dropped to his stomach.

"Hi…Blade?" A woman's soft, innocent voice asked over the phone. "It's Karen Jenson. I wanted to talk to you."


	7. 7: RECKLESS

_A while? Longer than that. Let's say I had a very busy year with work and my writing related stuff. I'm happy to say I had more inspiration for the story this time._

_Do feel free to comment! I love your feedbacks._

_-Caitlyn__It is the mark of an educated mind to be able to entertain a thought without accepting it. - Aristotle_

* * *

**7: Reckless**

Mercury's hands trailed on the beams of light shining off the gray wall, a pattern seen of glistening orbs of light from a crystal chandelier. She dragged her hand across and pulled strands of platinum blonde from her face, each dangling off from her hair clip falling out. She secured it once more and followed down the stairs where it was unusually quiet.

Settled on the couch, Quinn stared at the TV screen while playing Guitar Hero at a low volume setting; it wasn't though the TV she heard. Quinn's laughter roared the place.

"I'm beating my high score!" He exclaimed, jumping up from his seat. The plastic guitar he held bent with his movement, almost wanting to brake from his wrath.

She leaned against the wall, sighing. From her sigh, a draft surrounded his head as he noted how Mercury looked washed out. It didn't matter though ­ they weren't humanely alive. But it was the concern in her eyes that brought his attention wide span than usual. He looked up, and scratched the back of his head.

"What's the matter, Mercury?" He asked.

Her eyes hulled up. "I'm done with the fake happy go lucky personality." He threw out another sigh. "Can I go back to being me again?" She waited for a response from the man lounged out on the same couch Quinn was sitting on before. He didn't squirm ­ nor did he move a single inch. Just a blank stare at the television screen, as if he wasn't responding to reality world. The usual _'I don't care'_ sign held upright in his face.

_Boys are overly the top unresponsive_, she hissed under her breath.

Still no response, she answered her own question without any prior help from the boy clan. "Fine, I'm going back to being the bitch of the house."

Immediately, Deacon grinned; the devil of all his pleasures about women.

"There's my girl," he mumbled from underneath the layers of insanity.

A head snapped at his direction; the woman gave a devilish frown.

"Thanks for being supportive," she groaned.

He blocked out all that would have bothered him during his thinking time ­ something he wouldn't do casually alone, but this time he pondered more in his isolation of a reportorial mind. That girl, the one he cuffed by the wrists, what was it that made him more curious about her? Was it because of his stupidity by saying he was a _friend_? Yes, that was it. Remembering didn't have any turmoil's.

"_My dear,"_ he had said softly, velvety as it melted Chanel's voice as she tried to say something. _"I can't believe I am meeting you for the first time."_

Thinking twice, what was it that he wanted to meet her for?

He knew why she couldn't respond, not that he wasn't a real human.

"_Who are you?"_ She asked quickly.

And there it came: _"A friend."_

_Ugh, _he moaned.

"What is it, bro?" Quinn asks, putting his hand on the guitar again and stroking the keys with a light hum.

_Stupid bastard doesn't get it._ He yelled from inside his head, _why the hell did I get him for? I didn't have to pay a damn penny for the guy._

"It's nothing." He lied.

Quinn frowned ­ never had he believed in Deacon's doubts. He looked up at the plain white ceiling and said, "What are we going to do with _her_?"

Mercury spoke from behind the glass doors. "Kill the bitch, if that's what you want."

Upright of her sarcasm, Quinn's eyes lit up in joy. It was something he would rather like to do other than waiting around for Deacon's orders. "I wouldn't mind with that­"

"We aren't killing the bitch!" Deacon yelled.

Shock had departed from their faces as they stared at each other in the eye. Never had they seen Deacon react over a silly situation, somewhat thrilling to them but annoying to him. Quinn put down his guitar and shut off the Guitar Hero set, taking the he remote and clicking the off button for the television.

"What do you have in mind?"

His head dig into his chin as he pondered through his question. _He's right, what are we going to do?_ "That's the problem." he hauled up from the couch, bent over as he dug his cigarette into the ash tray. Still crouched, unresponsive for minutes; this was unusual for Mercury. She leaned over the couch, pulling herself closer to Deacon.

"Do you remember Josef Howard?" He asked his comrades.

Mercury's eyes broaden from the name spoken.

He casually flattened out the wrinkles in his pants. Waiting the right time to say his statement blocked his breathing from getting loose. "He's working for Blade."

Quinn nearly jumped. "Oh shit!"

"You didn't know that?" Mercury questioned, getting as close to his head as possible.

"No," he said. "Josef is the commissioner of the Manchester Police Department. If he finds out of this and my living existence, he'll hunt us down like a pack of dogs. It's not good overall."

She bit on the lower half of her lips, gnawing it in half to reminisce blood tinkling from the freshly open cut. If blood _were_ to have come out, he would have darted off the couch and jump for the prey. But it never happened.

He rolled his eyes back and waited for one of them to say something, anything that would make him ground down on his teeth. Overall, the situation was stupid ­ what to do though...the question could have been easily pondered through if he hadn't been dramatized prior to the woman.

She was...unique. The word flowed out. _Unique_.

And now, _he_ was a target for Josef and his authorities. Just because of her, he was held responsible for the attack. This could have been better if he had better planning, but the main point was that he'd never think twice of his actions. And, did he ever plan at all?

No. he couldn't be worried about this. He was an idol. Idols know their ways...

His cerulean eyes gazed up towards the ceiling, withdraw led from his two comrades perished at an instant when he puffed out a sigh, wisps of smoke flock around his nostrils. "She's _awfully_ quiet." He pointed out, noting the above floor from their heads.

Mercury looked up as well, her neck stretched out while revealing the bones of her collar bone. Deacon licked his lips together.

"So, is that a _good_ thing?" She fumbled with aggression on her accent.

He nodded. "Not really, but I'm not that worried with her."

Quinn gave a slanted frown. "Why?"

From underneath the layers of perspicacity, he gave a quick smirk. "I have a feeling she won't be going anywhere ­ preceding with what's going on now, she'll be a good pet."

Pet. _How grand_, he mused.

At a chop-chop pace she sputtered out her words. "You're saying she'll follow us everywhere?"

"My exact point."

Her face scrutinized, the irises of her eyes squinted down to size.

"I'm keeping an eye on her," he briefly said, while getting up from the couch. "And I'm having you two do the job when I'm out."

This was not what she wanted. Just before she could speak, even when her accent would sound devilish, he put out a hand and said, "Don't bitch about it. Do what you're told."

"When are we getting the hell out of here?" She moaned. Head-trauma on the way, he mumbled under her breath.

The answer was easy. "To your answer," he pursed his lips into an arch. He took out a lighter and lit the end of his newly cigarette. "Tonight, we're getting the hell out of here."

_ _ _

Just one more step, lug the leg out of the window and you're free. Instructions like these could have been set at an easier level for Chanel. Intake last gulp of air…and then jump. However, the instructions projecting in her head weren't clear of takeoff quite well. One thing in mind of her sakes was the fact that she was risking everything just to do this — escaping three floors high above the ground. If a sign had popped out for her, it would have said, _"dumbass."_

The grip against her and the window was a slippery hold, and within each second the tine had slowed, she would inch off the molding and her hands would slip from the moral clutch. Her breathing went deep, looking down at the ground bewildered of her actions.

_High heels are not made for this job_, she mused as she tried to add humor towards her situation.

They wouldn't know. No. They wouldn't. They wouldn't expect the innocent Chanel to make a deathly dupe of herself.

She repeated herself to make the outcome sound better.

At last, her foot strangled loose from the other side of the window, and with a big gasp, she pushed off without a fret. There came the _oof_ and moan of a woman's ambled body dangling loosely on the bush made of what felt like syringes though her back. The oomph feeling struck her like never before. If she wanted to get away, she had to get away _fast_.

Leisurely, she crawled between the bush and siding of the house, as the scratching between her and the bush worsened when she trembled to get up — just praying to God that they hadn't heard her. She turned her head where a window above gave off a pale blue ray shining through the glass trap.

They were in the room, but as she wondered, had they heard her?

She listened carefully of their chatter.

"Tonight?" Mercury exclaimed with fear striking her tone.

Chanel cringed immediately right after the woman had nearly broke the window. She sighed, and placed her ear against the cold siding of the house, close enough to the window where she could see the battle revolting into disgusts.

"Got any _better_ plans?" Deacon asked her, digging his cigarette into the ashtray ferociously.

The woman had started to act up as she did before things seemed awkward when she turned into a feminine thing, vigilant as she was; the woman had an array of a split personality, as it was common when Chanel identified the same behavior seen at the police department. Nothing she saw was out of the ordinary for a bipolar individual. It was common for her comrades to _act_ up.

Mercury had given up her reign of power and let the 'master' do his job.

"We'll just tell her we got an important message and had to move to another territory." Deacon suggested for once.

Mercury shook her head. "Wouldn't that make her suspicious?"

_Perhaps_, Chanel pondered.

"Would I really care for what the woman thinks these days?" He inquired, with a hint of spice sizzling on his devilishly personality. The bones around his neck stretched out from the top of his chin to his collarbone.

Her eyes broadened by his flexing shoulders, astounding her when she saw the mellow wickedness in his eyes. The cerulean color had vanished at an instant when his irises turned into a dark charcoal and a deep shade underneath his eyebrow line when he gazed at the blonde woman for being exasperated by his future planning.

He maneuvered gradually towards the blonde-haired woman, adjusting the collar of his shirt and continuing the glare of demise in an epic battle; fortunately, he would win anyhow even if the girl knew how to sneak pass his habits.

His timbre was deep, as it was also frightening. "I'm the one who plans things around here, and if you want to bitch about it, you might as well shut your _fucking_ mouth."

At the exact word, a low beeping unison rang from the back of Chanel's pocket. Her hand dragged aside the pocket, feeling the tiny object vibrate in harmony. _Oh shit_, she mouthed, as she took out the object and held it cup wise in her hands.

Deacon _had_ heard it.

"Something's beeping." As a first remedy, he looked up. "It's her —" He started to waver by it, and didn't hesitate to even go up the stairs at an instant.

"She had a _cell phone_?" Mercury mumbled, and took a head start towards the stairs.

The room went silent after Quinn was the last to make his move by placing down his plastic guitar, and running to his companions.

Now _was_ the time to _hit_ and _run_.

She darted out from the bushes, towards where the garage was and spotted an entryway of a wooded path the lead to the mesh of the woods. It was either the woods or by car, and if by car she was doomed to the death of her. The woods were her final option.

She couldn't have been far from Manchester, or whatever she was in New Hampshire. All of this was too recognizable.

The houses faded behind her as she ran deeper into the woods, but certain of her actions she knew the consequences were getting lost by path and possibly an injury if she did not watch her surroundings. Especially when those people she proposed as the killers were too dangerous to be around with, may decide to tie the rope on her, or yet cut the end off to her occupation — or life.

Risking was a fact, but by doing so, she may live it out.

It felt like hours she had been running through the foliage of trees and mossy bark, the ground underneath her mashed between her shoes like mud, as a little kid would run through a puddle. The thoughts ran through her head and projected all the possibilities that she knew would happen — _die_, yes, but it was worth the while.

She stripped off her heavy shirt that kept her back from running fast, now only running in a tank top and muddy pants, which was the smile that kept her away from stripping off any more pieces of clothing such as a _bra._ _Wouldn't want to lose that_, she deliberated. Her hands went for her shoes, as she tugged them off and resolute to go by barefoot. Before long had the clearing shown up, amongst her revealed a set of train tracks among little foliage growing on the flank. She stopped from a slippery rout, whereas her ear did the rest of the listening from yards away of an upcoming train. Expectations did come at a good time, something she was grating her teeth on before her escape plan went into action.

The train became visible from the afloat of fog shading her outlook, a long series of coach boxes entitled in white imperceptible font shot by at an instant in which all were heading wither southbound or west. Her directions weren't that decent, and admitting was a fact. If the Commissioner knew, he would have entitled it in their yearly yearbook underneath her department and name: _"Woman with distinctive knowledge of knowing her routes …not" _To her, it wasn't that humorous, yet, insulting. It although didn't go for her intelligence to cases — that was something funny she could quote in her section.

She got in closer to the train and waited for an opening to jump into, and at the right moment, she saw an opening and hurtled inward off from the grassy earth. Her entire body hit the floor of the coach box with a thud.

Relief.

There was the last task to do on the list, which was calling to Lance after getting her phone to ring a while back. Her hands went for her pockets, and as she dug out her phone, her fingers drummed on the keyboard, pressing the quick dial number with her thumb. With the phone placed to her ear, she listened for a dial tone. Her fingers crossed. After a few minutes of fumbling with the device, she sighed.

Nothing.

There was nothing else to do but wait. Maybe he will call back — maybe not — all she had to do now was wait. Her head leaned against the wall as she pretended a pillow was there for comfort; the shirt of hers could have been a good use. Guilt struck her tongue, wishing she had not attempted it. She forced her eyes shut while she waited for her culpability to stop. The train whistled, resting on the tracks with a soothing comfort covering Chanel's body, almost in a relaxing comfort zone she anticipated since. Eventually, the comfort zone had drifted her off to sleep, and never would she have awakened again until the next day.

Night had approached its ground, as the light flickered on in the streets. A black car made of wealth and liberty of any kind of human being zooms on the highway, seeing that evidently it was not obeying the basic speed limit. Its main focus was the tracks underneath their driving grounds. The train trolleys underneath the highway bridge, and as it reached the perimeter of the Rockingham County's end line, a full view of the siding peers through the darkness as it passes a train station. Clearly written in white grime paint coming off the sides, _Frost Enterprises_ it read noting its exact location of Concord, New Hampshire.

_ _ _

The relentless physics from his sleep, which keep on bugging him, was all due to an active mind. Everything, all he had tried to do was simply to get some sleep. However, it never budged — with his conscious telling him, _"You know where he is."_

He moaned loudly and turned to his side, spotting the young man and elder laid out on a flat cot as silent as a lamb.

The phone call had kept him up; yet never calling back was a grudge to his head. He forced his eyes shut and listened to his breathing get deeper by the second, trotting off into a deep sleet. Still, the little bug in his head never shut up.

_You know where he is_, the voice in his head repeated again.

Blade tried to fight back. _I don't._

Hitherto, the voice had repeated, _You know where he is_.

He wasn't fully functioning his mind and intelligence, hence the words will never keep quiet if he had not thought of it any sooner. It was a damper to his thoughts, and by reality facts that kept him from thinking he tried to fight back at his conscious. He went through the statement, and took a gamble at it. _Where would he go, and why? _Endeavoring made him contemplate from fact and reality.

_He wouldn't go back to his original penthouse — he's not that stupid._

He contemplated to himself again, thinking of the places he _would_ go in cases like this. Not back at the penthouse, but where?

Then, reality hit him like a bullet. He managed through the locations he determined that would be an urban for blood factoring, and coming to a close, he opened his eyes and let his vision focus. Anywhere but his penthouse would be a target, and that the only place around here would be such places in Manchester, Portsmouth, Nashua, and Concord. Anywhere else, not possible. It was a good question he pondered about, and knew a good reasoning for it. Why would he move thousands of miles from here just to get good donors for a change? The quality here was not like where he had been.

A lump in the back of his throat formed. One of those major cities was the target, and knowing what Lance and Chanel's background focused on, it couldn't be near their location — it would be too obvious, and the evidence would have shown — which left one for the claiming.

As the statement had said, _You _know_ where he is._

He swallowed hard and rose up from the couch, running for the phone in the back of the room. Before long Whistler saw the activeness of his student, and shook the shoulder of Lance to wake him up.

Blade placed the phone to his ear, and before dialing, he said to them, "I know where he is."

Whistler's weary expression changed to a positive response, a smile stretched across his face. Lance scrutinized at the man.

"Where is he then?" He asked.

Blade smiled back. "Get the stuff," he said to Whistler, and drummed the buttons on the phone. "We'll need some backup from a couple of _familiars_."


	8. 8: OUTCAST

**Oh geez, it's been a while since I've had writer's block for DOR. At least I finally got this out. This was a tough chapter to work on, but many of the comments recently had me motivated to get the chapter done. I thank you for those who have commented! Your comments are great!**

**Enjoy, and sleep tight...**

* * *

**8: Outcast**

"Familiars?" Lance questioned the indomitable man, who was then running around the shed like a goat on a sugar rush, grabbing every item he passed on the way, spectacle of being a use for Blade's mission.

Lance had not known what Blade meant by _familiars_, especially when the familiars he mentioned sounded a bit dangerous to be around with — somewhat similar to the case he was in now. How could he trust this guy? Or his comrades of the night? Whistler may be a good sign of hope, but _this_ man he's fret to commit with, who appears to have a lifeless face and is impassive all over; would he really bother to step in and presume his ideas? No sign of glory helped him determine whether he was good or not to trust his guts.

Nevertheless, the familiars though, he sought more about them. Would they be a great help to find Chanel and the culprit, who deceitfully got away unharmed?

Lance crawled out from his cot, moaning from the lack of sleep provided by the uncomfortable cot, which then fell back when he stood up and stretched out his tightened back. With his arms flailing out, he moaned again, when he stretched hard enough to pull a strain the back of his neck, in which he had to rub subsequently to his stretching routine.

Blade mumbled through the phone while Lance followed Whistler to the back boiling room of the shed. A room full of worn out boxes staggered everywhere surprised him, each one had something in it reliable for Whistler to pick out for Blade's plan. The first one he pulled out from his right was a tiny box, contained with guns and bullet shells. How amazing it was to see a man possess such equipment, he became jealous and wondered as a joke why Josef didn't own anything like this. Letting out a soft chuckle, he pulled out one of the guns, caressing the butt of it.

It was heavy-duty equipment all right; the gun must have weighted four or five pounds! Envy filled his chest when he inspected the boulder-weighted gun, peering down at the box he pulled out a stash of bullets, and looking inside the box were fifteen pure silver caps. Such uniqueness this gun had — and silver was a priority for it.

"Be careful with that gun," Whistler's voice rang through his eardrums, his voice was calm and persistent. "It's Blade's _special_ — and favorite — gun."

With his eyes shot up at Whistler's face, he cradled the gun carefully against his chest, grinning from amazement — and speculations that it was Blade's signature gun used all the time in defense. No wonder why this man was too unique. And creepy. "I had a hunch it was his." He admitted, showing signs of awareness of Blade's possessions.

Whistler grinned as well, for him he understood Lance's position, having doubt before when he'd figure things didn't seem so ease with him. How to cheer him up was an ideal figure of what Whistler was mainly about. "I gave his first gun years ago, and that gun you're holding, was the first I created to defend himself against immortals."

"How about you?" He asked.

Whistler wasn't afraid to say his truth. "I do have the necessities for defense, but I'm too old to do such things now. It's not the same as it was years ago, not the same strength."

"I believe you."

"Why do you say that?"

"Things change rapidly, I've seen it." Lance confessed. "One day you're strong for others, and then the next you don't have the strength to help _yourself_. That is why we have so many accidents at the MPD."

"You're telling me you guys aren't that strong enough to defend for your life?"

He shook his head, with his eyes down to the floor. "We are made to help others — it's for a good cause."

"I think my cause isn't helping the fella out." He laughed.

"Don't think of it that way." He nibbled on the lower half of his lip, musing over what Whistler had said.

Whistler shook his head. "It's too late to convince me — I've become a burden for his community service."

Lance grinned. "I never thought of it that way. You define his work as community service?"

"Of course, and at least we still have those on our side who believe in my opinion."

The doors opened a crack, fingers seen through the opening, and in came a woman with beautiful dark colored skin tone and wavy dark hair. Her eyes were broadening with life when she saw the gentleman and grandpa sear through the dusty boxes from a year's worth of collecting. A smile approached her lips when she spotted the old grandpa straighten back up, groaned quietly while he adjusted the strap on his leg.

_The man still stands_, she mused, amusing herself from getting the truth out in person.

Whistler stiffened, adjusting the strap still when he saw a pair of feet walk in, fashionable and clean. To his dismay it wasn't his sense of cleanliness. This man was too clean to be a familiar.

Lance got up from kneeling on the floor and laughed, "Josef! He called you in?"

The man tried to hide his blushing from underneath his deadpan mask. "I actually came on my _own_ meanings to get Chanel back, and you told me to come."

"Not surprised," Lance agreed, cocking his eyebrow, remembering the conversation back in the Dodge car.

Whistler stood back up again and walked over to the beautiful woman, who was now open arms with the man and hugged him. He turned around to face Lance and Josef to introduce her. "Lance, I would like you to meet Karen. She's a close friend of ours."

Karen happily enough walked over to shake hands with Lance. "It is nice to meet you, Mr. Gernard."

"You can call me Lance if you want."

"All right. I hear you two are from the Manchester Police Department?"

Josef, longingly stalking over to the woman braced a seductive smile on his face, imposing Lance to punch the man in the shoulder from getting over the top with his flirtatiousness. As foolish as he could ever be, Lance was expecting high potential from his knowledgeable commissioner, and in this case it wasn't happening. Having to punch him a few times could get him out of his _'act like an idiot' _mode; Josef though was hard to restrain back to his ordinary self, from cases whereas a woman with such unique beauty could star struck him by first sight.

The unfortunate thing was by being star struck didn't help him in any cause to find the right woman. He was hard to draw in a woman's attention for he was very, as many would say, _strange_. Not strange as in the ugliness of his appearance or his motives, but it was his personality — being split or bipolar on the dreary days — which was the outcome for a woman's opinion to be critical to Josef's overall character.

It didn't appear though Josef was affected by this. _Or come to say_ Lance would comment for himself, inside his isolated mind, _he's just strange like some high school students back in my day were like. _He never spoke of this aloud; worried he would hurt the feelings of a good person, although he can be quite awkward at some times.

Lance of course was thinking of this at this point of time once he nudged his commissioner from getting too flirty with a woman he'd only met for a minute.

Karen smirked at Josef and shook his hand too, while Lance answered her question. "Yes we are. Josef is the commissioner of the department, while Chanel and I are crime investigators."

"Seems like a tough job," she replied, monotone.

"It can be," he said, "but sometime my partner can figure things out in a second."

"And where might she be?" Karen asked, unaware of the fact Chanel wasn't anywhere near the premises of the old state shed.

Whistler answered her question without a fret. "_That_ is the person whom we are trying to find. Did Blade mention that to you?"

"He told me someone was kidnapped."

"Do you know who kidnapped her?"

She shook her head. "He didn't get too specific of the case."

Blade had entered at a later time when he organized a few things from out back, and when her entered he hold onto a freshly sharpened sword with engagement down the middle. He flung it, swift movements about and slid the sword behind his back where a sword carrier was hid, blended within his dark trench coat. His voice was groggy, and dark. "In case if you didn't know, we have a _friend_ on the loose."

"A friend?" Karen wondered.

"Deacon." Whistler helped answer her question.

She placed a finger on her lip as if she was in deep pondering of the situation. "How, and why?"

"I don't know, but we're in shit if we don't find Chanel."

"Do you know where?"

"I'm posing Concord as our target." Blade said. "Back in the day when I used to fight him — before I met you, Karen — he usually attends to his blood bank franchise around the country, and I'm guessing he has one in Concord."

"I knew he had blood banks; Sergeant Gideon had a blood bank hidden in the back of his cruiser."

Blade's eyebrow arched, baffled covered his usual blank face. "You remember that? That happened so long ago…"

"I always document everything, so I could put it together in my bibliography book I call _'A Day in the Life of Karen Jensen: An Encounter with Bloodsuckers'_ to come out in the near future." She joked.

"Hope it doesn't. I wouldn't buy it."

"Don't have too," she grinned. "It wouldn't sound right to normal humans unlike me."

"Agreed." He groaned. He snapped his head at Lance. "We'll travel by groups: I'll go with Karen, while you, Whistler and Josef can go together in that big GMC of yours."

Lance bowed his head after he listened to Blade's plan. "All right. We're taking route one-oh-one?"

"Yes."

"Then take it off the next ramp and onto interstate ninety-three. It'll be quicker that way to Concord." Josef added.

Blade glanced at him. "Sounds good to me. You'll travel behind for a lookout of upcoming assholes."

Josef snickered. "I like this job already."

_ _ _

Chanel had contemplated through the entire situation. "How could you, Keen, how could you?" It was the action before thinking move which made Chanel wince away from her own ponderings. Lesson of learning was to learn from a self's own action; as for Chanel's it was to shut off all electronics before actually taking off, so that nothing would go off during her escape plan. Of course, had it not gone off and she would be out of their clutch for good. But it had, and they were on her trail — if they knew where she was.

The train had stopped to a sulk halt in a nearby station, for a quick inspection from the crew, Chanel jumped off the train and trembled inside the building where other passengers awaited for their ride from either the Amtrak or other transportation. It wasn't that crowded, but the amount was enough to make Chanel appear innocent, covering up the lies underneath her barren skin. It was enough to pass her by for interrogating from passengers or curious staff members. She didn't looked too disheveled for questioning, did she?

She shook her head and tried to forget about panicking, and instead try to find the nearest bathroom and clean herself up from the grime and blood clung onto her hair follicles of her arms. And she did find one, in the way back of the station, the perfect place from being seen.

She stalked inside, carefully opening the door, glanced around for a quick inspection and slipped through the opening of the door. It was vacant. She sighed, relieved. The faucet went on and was set to lukewarm, water shooting out from the mouth of the silver faucet and started to splatter everywhere, including her pants. Once she grabbed a paper towel from the roll bulk set beside the since, and then patting down the damp spot near her crotch, she wiped down her whole body from head to toe without undressing, just in case someone was interested in using the stalls as well. The grime came out without having to scrub it off with an SOS pad, and so did the blood she dared not to look at for its color was too disgusting to even mention.

After cleaning herself up, she pulled back her hair with an elastic hair band on her wrist, tied it into a messy bun and then dampening down her sore face. With a single light touch on her cheek, it inflated from irritation. _I guess I'm all beaten up for nothing,_ she cogitated. After the swelling went down, she patted the surface of her skin, and eventually her face wasn't as badly gross looking than before. She threw away the soiled paper towel, walking out freely from her previous confined self, and entering into the lobby of the station with a new atmosphere surrounding her.

The next task on her list was a way to get back to Lance: the phone didn't work. Maybe the payphone would give her a dim of luck from her ghastly day. With enough money on her, she could pass by with a two minute call on the payphone, joyful she would be hearing the love of her life again, and then getting out of this mess without harm approaching. To find one was her challenge. Payphone were near extinction.

She searched the place out, back to where she came from on the docking deck, to the front of the building where it was more crowded than inside like a city. The streets were filled with human forms, all of which were either darting to work for their _common_ lateness, or elders sitting on the street benches as they eye the crowd of youthful individuals, noting how different they were from _their_ days in either the thirties of late forties — or _centuries_ old.

Chanel walked up the lively streets, still searching for an existing payphone, and making sure the murderous clan wasn't following her. Her hopes were up by the time she turned onto the next street, where a bus station was being loaded with people, and next to the benches of awaiting passengers was a payphone. Joy! She praised with her hands clasped together as if she was praying to the above.

She ran over to the payphone and shut the door behind her like the traditional payphones seen in England — the red little skyscraper she would sometimes call it. Checking her back pockets she pulled out a slim _apt. 9_ wallet, opening the clasp, and then retrieving four quarters which equaled to two minutes for the payphone. The coils slid into the tiny hole, and finally Chanel pointed her fingers on the dial numbers.

But then, she paused for a long moment.

What if those people had caught Lance and the creepy man and if she called them it would be a threat against their lives? She pondered through the array of questions projecting in her head. It's possible, but is it worth risking the fear of Lance getting caught from his phone ringing during his torture? Too risky.

She instead, dialed another number prior for her sake, and the case she was assigned to. A dial tone rang, and then a voice emerged from the other line. "Hello?" A man said.

"Kenneth, it's Chanel." She mumbled.

"Chanel?"

"Yes, I need to ask you something."

Confusing struck his tone. "What is it, dear?"

"The killers, in my file does it say who these people are?"

"Um, I don't know."

"I think I found them."

Silence approached. Chanel feared Kenneth would hang up on her, thinking she had gone crazy. _Oh, he would have thought that_, she thought. But it didn't appear that way, because Kenneth had answered once again, only this time his voice sounded husky as though he were running. Maybe he went to retrieve the files. "I have the files in my hands now." Chanel could hear the sounds of papers being searched through and flipped around. "Well, all we know is that they live near the seacoast."

"True, they do, somewhere near the woods." She said. "What else?"

The sound of papers filtered through the phone again. Chanel was getting annoyed by his slow progress, and abruptly asked the man, "Did we get any DNA matches while I-" She stopped on her track from getting the truth out. Kenneth didn't know of her disappearance; he would be freaking out by now. A while lie she had to come up with to sound reasonable. "Did we get any DNA matches while I was…searching in the northern part of Hampton?"

He laughed. "Get some tanning done while you were working?"

She frowned. "No."

"Too bad." He said, and then the phone was filtered with the same noise again. "Actually, we did catch something."

Relief. And shock.

"We found a DNA sample from one of the victims; it traced down to someone named Quinn L. His last name was only abbreviated with L, nothing else. He lived in New York City for a few years…" His voice trailed off.

"And?" Chanel retorted, impatient from the lack of evidence given to her.

Kenneth returned, only sounding astonished from the evidence. "But he died eleven years ago from domestic violence."

Quinn was dead? It didn't make any sense…how could he be alive now when he should be dead? She placed her hand in her pocket and felt the USB drive stuck between her fingers. Something about the previous evidence may be the key reason why she was off on her conclusion. If in the files she held say Quinn was very alive, but when Kenneth's say he was dead before she even met him, it seemed odd for someone to have two clear evidence files not on the right note. It would help her very much draw up a conclusion for the next town meeting about the killers; in fact, it would be very helpful to have things cleared up before things turn for the worth with the wrong evidence in the way. It would be disastrous!

Chanel bit on her lower half lip as she pondered again how to make things work her way. "If I find the nearest library, could you send the files to my account?"

"Sure," he said, "where are you?"

She glanced around for a sign, and the obvious sign to her approach was the golden roof top of the most notable building in the center of New Hampshire seen from the horizon of her standing point. The state house. "I'm in Concord doing some investigating."

"All right, I'll send the files electronically through your account."

"Thank you so much!" She praised. "I'll be able to figure out the problem."

"What problem?" He asked.

"Our evidence seems a bit off the note. I want to look through and see any similarity."

"What evidence is off?"

"You said Quinn died eleven years ago, right?" She asked, question herself as well if it did seem right.

He answered, "Yes."

"Well, my files say he _wasn't_ dead. I want to make sure we can conclude what the heck is off with our observations."

"Definitely," he agreed. "I'm a tad confused by this as well. And you say you met _them_?"

"I believe so."

"What did they look like?"

"A woman with short blonde hair, a male with dark reddish hair, and a man…" She trailed off due to fact the next man she wanted to mention was sitting in front of her face, probably an illusion of how deathly good looking he appeared. But when she blinked, the image did not disappear.

Oh crap.

"Chanel?" Kenneth questioned, posing a worried tone in his voice.

"Oh," she focused again on the conversation; a few times she would glare up at the man standing behind the pale glass, making sure he wouldn't move an inch from her predatory. "I'm almost out of time on the payphone; can I call you back later on today?"

"Sure." He said.

And immediately she slammed the corded phone back onto its hook, and when she glared back up to see him, he was gone.

Or so she thought.

The door behind her swung open, there they were blocking off her only exit all of which had devilish eyes staring at her. A smile approached Deacon's face when he sauntered towards Chanel, a beat of sweat poured from her forehead.

"It not hard finding you in a place like this." He said, while keeping the sarcasm to a minimum. "I knew the train would be carrying you somewhere near the enterprise."

How did he know she took off on the train? Fear struck her when she realized he was stalking every part of her life. Had he noticed her running through the woods? What else could he had spotted along the way to lead him here?

She pushed back away from his chest. "Why are you following me?"

"I wasn't finished with you, yet." He smiled. "And besides, you have something or _ours_."

"What might that be?"

He felt for her pocket. "This." He pulled out the USB drive, her crime files. What would he want to those files? Maybe the tracking to them, or their previous leftovers on the streets today. Chanel snatched it from his hand, and kept it close to her, although she had a feeling he would be retrieving it again.

"You're feisty." He mentioned, and then his hand pulled her out of the phone booth, pushing her up against the exterior of the glass. His fingers glided across her neck. "I've never met a woman who would fidget to get her prized procession."

"They're my crime files."

"Oh, for your _case_?" He hinted. "Don't you remember I'm _helping_ you?"

"Not any more when I realized who you are."

She heard his tongue snap on his pallet, and his head began to nod. "Are you scared?"

She frowned, a bit worried, but she inhaled to get the stress and worry out of her system. "No."

"You should be," he laughed. "I'm a predator." He glanced back at his comrades. "So are they."

The blonde devilishly smiled. "We hunt for a living, and feast on those like you."

Quinn, the red head Chanel was able to deduce from her previous evidence with Kenneth on the phone, agreed with the woman as his head bounced up and down.

Deacon stared back at Chanel, who was now cringing away from them. Still smiling, he pulled her forward. "Josef is on our case now, so we had to find a way to get him off our backs for today. I think a simple feasting would be our plan."

Mercury's eyebrow arched in confusion. "I thought you said we weren't going to kill the bitch?"

Deacon glared back at her again. "Let's say I had a change in heart."

"Doesn't make any sense to us —" she shot her eyes at Quinn, and then back at Deacon, "— if we don't get your changing plans."

"It doesn't have to be."

"I'm confused by how you said you didn't want to kill her," Quinn said, crossing his arms as if he were giving directions, "and then now you said you want to throw her away because of Josef. Well, don't you think Josef will then chase us down like hound dogs?"

"You guys are fucking stupid! I'm only joking just to get on the girl's case." He retorted, at the moment he thought he had won over Chanel, he didn't expect the next event to take place. Chanel threw out her arm at Deacon, forming her hand into a tight fist, and when she was close enough to his face she swiped her fist across and landed head on in Deacon's nose. Her hand fell with her, falling back on the balls of her feet.

Deacon winced away in pain, covering his nose from the gushing blood, scrunching his lips a few times from impact. Mercury and Quinn hovered over their fallen hero, checking out the damage done, while they spotted Chanel still standing in the same spot where Deacon held her before the accident. Baffled, they didn't understand why the girl wasn't running. Had she doubted her biggest mistake to run for freedom?

Deacon stiffened when he scrunched up his face again, and then staring at Chanel who was still standing in front of him un-frightened by her action, nor his roar of pain. Confused as his comrades were, he cast a questionable mask on his face, attention drawing to Chanel now leisurely coming closer to the killers. _Foolish girl_, he hissed under his breath.

He got back up on the balls of his feet, with his arm outstretched to Chanel, and his hand clamped onto his neck he dragged her to the nearest alleyway where he motioned his followers to tag along if he wanted to get the problem over with.

"You're fucking dead." He hissed at Chanel, and then he flashed his fangs at her while he dragged her to the back alleyway where a black car was parked.

Chanel cringed, helpless, but _not_ afraid.

Again, this confused them. Why wasn't she afraid?

Deacon wondered for a while when he approached his car, opened the passenger door and shoved the girl inside, why she wasn't afraid of a monster like him. When seated, he placed both his hands on her thighs, glowering at her like a mad dog. "Why aren't you fucking afraid?" He yelled.

Chanel slouched her shoulders. "I don't know."

"Why not?" Again, he growled. "I'm a fucking monster!"

"It doesn't matter," she said calmly.

"'It doesn't matter?'" he quoted her.

"People around you see this, and they know what kind of monster you are, so why should I be afraid when they know what to do with people like you?"

He continued to growl between his clattering teeth. "In this world today, sweetheart, it's not like that."

Her eyes broadened, unaware Mercury and Quinn had already taken their seats in the back, and that Quinn was caressing Chanel's elbow because of a lust for feasting had overtaken his humorous personality.

Deacon let Chanel go, slamming the door, and when her got on the driver's side of the car he furiously turned on the engine. He threw the car into drive. "I hope you enjoy our presence, because we aren't leaving without our precious gift." He smirked.


	9. 9: CONFIDENTIAL

I have to be honest, but I am **ecstatic** by the results of DOR's reviews and stats. I mean, a day (or on the same day) when I released chapter 8, traffic boomed to life! Views and hits were triple the amount I used to get. I'm shocked, yes, and happy everyone seems to enjoy it as I do with writing DOR (including the wrestling and fighting with the characters and my mind which implodes during writer's block.) Thank you all so much for this! Your comments are also wonderful to read and for me to reply to. Many advice and critiques were grand to receive, and I took them into action. So I hope you enjoy the next chapter.

Just to tell you, I realized this chapter is a bit shorter than the rest, but the cliff hanger was fun to write.

Keep up your support! –Caitlyn

* * *

**9: Confidential**

Chanel fumed, contemplating the differences of her evidence, while having to deal with psychopaths who thinks she has something precious of theirs. Her mouth fumbled, until she could finally reach her breaking point, fury swathing with her calmness. "I seriously do not understand you people!"

Quinn chuckled from the back, wrapping his seatbelt around his chest seeing as Deacon's acceleration on the gas was beyond the basic speed limit on the urban road.

"She's fucking screwed." He hushed her from saying more while he admired the nobleness of his leader. It was Deacon who had went beyond his stress point.

Deacon roared, "Shut up! For God's sake, shut the _fuck_ up!"

Quinn winced away immediately. "Sorry…what's wrong with you man? I mean — you're different from before?"

"Let's say I was scared by Blade when he fucking killed me."

"Who gives a damn about Daywalker? So yeah, he scared you, what else could have happened to you?"

Deacon began to burn inside his chest. "All of you are giving me a god damn headache." His eyes glared at the girl curing up in her seat. "Especially_ you_. I didn't realize you would be a pain in the ass to watch."

Chanel, flabbergasted, puckered up her lip. "Do my evasion skills impress you?"

"Not a damn bit." He growled.

"Investigators, cops and agents are supposed to know these skills in case of a hostage problem. I thought you might have been impressed." She hinted at the point given, nudging her shoulder at him although he clearly didn't get the message because he didn't care otherwise.

His lean fingers wrapped around the leather covered steering wheel, a tight grasp whereas the blue veins showed through his translucent ashen skin. With his teeth grinding together, he forced himself not to look back at her. _Foolish bitch_, he mumbled. It was a break through moment for him, especially now when he could kill the girl as Quinn hoped would happen, and for him to get back the USB from her lined pockets. With her though alive it would be a burden to get it back.

Still, the thought of _him_ alive was a major question. Trying to seize each moment of the past was fuzzy, what happened was also questionable to his actions before he realized him and his comrades made it through the ritual. And he had thought all was at lost when he knew the risks ahead before he had ever started the mess years ago.

It had to be a curse. Nothing else could have brought them back. What did Blade do to resurrect them from the dead? And why them too, and not _just_ him? Baffling as it all seems it was like a puzzle: one piece was missing from his evidence of resurrection, or it may have been the one piece missing from his ritual he overseen.

Now was not the time to ponder through deeply to find his answers; it's possible the answers were hidden inside the USB, _his_ archive files, _his_ USB, _his_ whole source of becoming an idol. And _she_ had it.

How could a man like him retrieve it from a woman with intelligence stronger than people he knew around him? The problem lied within his archives. It had to be.

The car sped by a few cruisers, obviously their lights flashed in an array of colors, but the black Porsche was faster and it got away without hassling to make a daring move such as driving off a cliff or a bridge. The farther the cruisers were, the faster his Porsche went, and eventually the cruisers perished within darkness of heavy fog.

_ _ _

Twenty miles away of Fremont is a town named New Castle, a place full of wealth every house was known to belong to a wealthy person, from a heritage of family heirs and a few who were lucky enough to win the lottery to get a nice Tuscany styled home with an outdoor swimming pool. Many of these homes were either occupied by the well known, or a rare spread of those on the housing market.

On this tiny coast was a house like any other. With fine white siding, black window frames, and a porch made of the finest granite in the state, everything thought it was the multimillion dollar lifestyle everyone seeks to achieve. On the multimillion dollar property is a freshly chopped basket weaved grass lawn, purple tulips planted in the front where the gate is always open; up the geometric stone path is a water fountain the size of an average pickup truck shaped like ancient Greek angels holding onto water pots, water pouring out of the handled pot like a waterfall, crystal blue water that danced like the stars in the night sky.

A man approaches from the front entrance of the country styled estate, with a cigarette in his right hand and a newspaper in his other; he looks down at the flimsy paper he reached for on the ground, glaring at the bold headlines across the top, stating of another murder in the Rochester area. It was the headlines underneath which took him by surprise, an article which spoke of an investigator's mysterious disappearance two days ago is yet not heard from. The next article related to the killers posed to be in connection with the recent death of one victim found near the Hampton Ballroom Casino, one of the killers possibly identified as Quinn L.

The man shook his head, grinning under the shade of his hair falling in front of his face; he brushed through his gelled hair and went inside, reading more of the mysterious Quinn. From the moment he got in, a woman lounging on the marshmallow like sofa turned to him at an instant, while he puffed out rings of smoke from his softened red moistened mouth. Curiosity filled her face, and when she saw her man come in with such distinction unlike before, she had to know what seemed to be the problem.

"What seems to be the matter?" She asked her partner, who now caught sight of her beauty lying right before his eyes. She lounged back, caressing her bare legs.

The man bit on his lower half lip. "They think they found the killers."

"Oh _really_?"

"Yeah. The only problem is they identified the _wrong_ people."

"What a shame investigators are." She snubbed.

"I know." He grinned again. "Our problem is they are close enough to find out path."

"I don't think we have to worry. They'll lose us."

"Maybe, but I think the people identified are the ones possibly linked to the girl's disappearance."

"Do you think…?" She stumbled off.

"I think it's _him_." He informed her, while he slid off his long black robe from his sweaty body. "Thank God, don't you think?"

"It worked then?"

"Maybe, if that Daywalker caused the thing to go off."

"How would we know?" She asked.

He went over to his Mac book, flipping it open, revealing a Google maps page to flash. "We'll have to take a look for ourselves."

"It's hidden within the chamber, right?"

"Yes."

"So he must have gone by it."

"If that's the case, then he did trigger it off."

"Or _someone_ else who was in the chamber after."

"It could have been triggered off by anyone, simply by _touching_ it." He shut the top of his Mac book with a loud slam. "We will have to find him."

"Our savior?"

He grinned. "Our savior." He went over to the open window and looked out from it. "But first, I need to make sure our savior get's our message…"

_ _ _

Deacon already had enough of Chanel's rant. "Will you shut up, please?"

"Why? What do you have against me?" She whined, luring into her approaching end.

"Everything! All I want is my files back!"

"To do what?"

"To have my reign again."

Confusion struck her. "What reign?"

He sighed, heavily aggravated. "I told you, I'm dangerous. I'm not what you think. I'm a monster who wants to eat you!"

Again, confusion.

"Do I have to explain everything to you?" He retorted at her, wondering why she appeared so stupid when she in reality was smart.

She nudged her shoulders at him. "I think you will have to, because I do not understand you people at all."

"Fine." He yelled, while he made a sharp turn onto a cover bridge. "My comrades and I hunt people for a living; we live an extravagant lifestyle unlike you humans, and we fight for entertainment. Our lust is to turn humans on, until we can bite them and feed off them." He shot his eyes on the road. "I just want to be normal again like before."

Her eyes broadened with disgust. "You people are gross!"

"Understand now what we are?" He raised an eyebrow at her.

"Now I get you. But why?"

"We _need_ too," — he raised a smile at her — "and we can go over the top with our livings."

"And you like this?"

He shrugged his shoulders. "Yeah. It's like being wild, but in an _inhumane_ way."

"Inhumane?"

"Were not humanely alive."

_Vampires_, she grudged. It made sense. That was why Blade looked like a psychopath, and that these people weren't worried about driving off a bridge, because they would have survived and she would be in a body bag. If she had the guts to get away, they would come after her like moments ago they caught her. And maybe that was why he was pissed off for getting punched by a woman. She chuckled inside her head.

It was risky to run away. And if she did, the same pattern would repeat all over again. The best of her guts and thoughts was to stay with him until she would find a way to get back to herself again. Convinced, she listened to Deacon more and then came up with some convincing questions to get out of his hunting range.

"How did you become one?"

He went quiet. _Dead_ quiet.

"How long?"

Again, silent.

"What did I say?" She turned to the back where Mercury and Quinn were fighting over the last sip of a drink Quinn bought a while back. Their hands flailed all over the place, each taking a hand of the white plastic cup, crimson liquid splashing out from the rim, and finally their fighting stop with Quinn's leg shoving Mercury into the door where she took a hold onto the coat hanger pin sticking out from the ceiling. She scorned at the red head, who was now sipping through the clear straw, devouring each divine slip of crimson until the very last sucking ended.

The red crimson was instead blood. Something she had figured out when she realized who these people were.

She turned back to watching the view in front of her, Deacon still silent from her questions.

"What are you going to do with me?" She asked him, keeping the questions simple.

He finally answered. "I have to get out of Josef's path first; the cops are still trailing behind. And then afterward," he cocked his chin at her again, "I'll be able to play with my toy for some time." His fingers slid off from the steering wheel and lifted up the girl's soft round chin. "I never had time to get to know you some more." He caressed around her jawbone, pushed back her hair behind her left ear from falling in front of her pretty face, and carefully swiped his thumb on her rosy cheek.

Chanel blushed underneath her invisible mask, after being played around he brought his eyes upon the rearview mirror, watching the cruisers disappear in sight.

Deacon sounded happier that the cruisers were gone. "I think we lost them."

"How wonderful." Chanel said sarcastically.

He grumbled from hearing her sarcasm. "How to make you happy…"

"You won't be able to, because I think you and your friends are psychopaths."

He showed his usual devilish smiled at her. "I'll find a way of course."

The ride was short the deeper they got into the heart of Manchester, which was a surprise to Chanel he had a location in the town after all. With the roads crowded, Deacon made a swift turn into an alley with a garage at the end of it. The garage door came open when he approached it, driving the Porsche into the metallic building and shutting the doors behind him the press of a button on his key set. He opened his door and walked over to Chanel's side, gripping onto her elbow with a tight clamp like nails in a wood board, she winced from his aggressive approach.

Up the cement staircase and into an empty hallway, they entered in the Fortier of the sky scraper; a glass elevator seated next to the front desks, which was Deacon's next point of travel. They entered inside the transparent elevator, as Deacon pushed the button of a triangle up; the elevator moved with a humming sound coming from above their heads.

The elevator stopped on the first floor with a couple of other metal elevators beside it, and as they got out, the three comrades turned to the one down further into a vacant space with Chanel dragging behind. The one elevator they walked to had a symbol next to it in Braille, a code Chanel couldn't define clearly — possibly because it was their hideout. Entering, she hold onto the silver bar next to her for dear life as it lifted them up to a penthouse she had never seen before in her history of Manchester.

Slowly, the humming stopped. The doors came open.

"Welcome," Deacon whispered to her behind her back.

Shaken up, Deacon had to help her get inside, but that didn't even help him stop from tumbling. Mercury and Quinn saw their idol fall on the metal bar Chanel was onto on to with a loud _thud_.

Mercury hurried over to her fallen lover, who was now gasping for air. "Deacon!"

"Deac! What the hell?" Quinn yelled afterward, pushing Chanel aside to fall onto her own feet too.

She fell to the cold floor on her back, making a snap sound when her head hit the tiled floor along with her last breath escaping through her lungs. Her body started to shake and cave in with a heavy weight, heat building up inside her as if someone had thrown a person on her. From turning her head, she saw Mercury rush to her side. She pressed her lips together by the sight of Mercury licking her lips, but was instead checking her pulse. Her cold fingers touched the surface of her skin.

"She's fine, but what about you?" She yelled back at Deacon.

Deacon didn't respond.

"Deacon?" She asked again, this time rushing over to him. She mumbled, but eventually trailed off from Chanel's hearing. "Something's wrong with him…"

From Chanel's view, she saw the man glaring at her, as though as he was possessed by someone.

Deacon started to respond again, rubbing the back of his neck. "It felt like someone was inside my head."

"You need to get up, first of all!" Mercury exclaimed, pulling his arm, but he refused to be haltered up

After the commotion had ended for Deacon, the next commotion started for Chanel.

"Get out of my head!" She yelled wringing in sweat, with her arms wrapped around her head. She curled into a tiny ball.

Quinn and Mercury twisted and turned to face the girl now yelling over the same problem.

"What is wrong with these people?" Quinn asked his friend, who was helping to lift Deacon's head from the floor, as Quinn went over to check the girl for himself. He bent down to her and asked her repeatedly. "What is wrong?"

"He's inside my head!" She yelled. "Get him out!"

"Who is?"

"_HIM_!" She hissed.

Perplexed, Quinn helped the woman up and placed her on her feat. She continued to squirm in pain, while he stared at his friend for answers. "What should we do?"

"Help her on the couch while I'll help get him up. He looks fine now." She replied.

Quinn nodded and carefully brought Chanel to the couch, while she looked behind to see Deacon's devilish smile be unnoticed.

_Smiling?_ She wondered. _Why would he be smiling?_

Deacon continued to look at his toy struggle to get her mind clear. He mused, wickedness unseen from the naked eye of his friends except for Chanel.

T_he fun and games begin…_


	10. 10: CONSPIRACY

Well, I finished my book a week ago, which means I have more time to do my other projects while I'm editing my book with a few close people. I've made a promise to myself to update DOR every so often even when I'm busy. Hopefully I'll get some more done in the summer on my days off from work. The chapter is a little shorter than the rest, but it was an interesting write up.

Enjoy and thanks for the comments! I love reviews!

-Caitlyn

* * *

**10: Conspiracy**

"It's evident," Mercury mumbled harshly.

Deacon, with an ice pack pressed against his head rolled his eyes for once, although the icepack was not doing any good. This huge quagmire with him being hurt was fake anyhow.

"What is evident?" He asked.

"That you did that to the girl." Her fingers caressed his forehead as she glared up at the girl moping on the couch across from them. Quinn had the woman propped on a marshmallow like pillow, her head sunk inside with her hands covering her face from showing her recent painful experience.

Deacon grumbled when Mercury mentioned Chanel. "It not entirely my fault she's cringing now from the aftermath."

"Yeah?" Mercury questioned him with a frown. "So what happened to you?"

_Yes_, he wondered. _What the hell did happen to me?_

"I don't know." He said. "I'm fine now — why don't we instead do something with Chanel?" He glanced up from underneath the cold icepack and asked Quinn hovering above Chanel, "How is she doing?"

He bent down mumbling to the girl for a moment and responded back to Deacon. "She said her head is still hurting."

Chanel sealed her eyes shut as the pounding grew intense inside her skull. Her wish of wanting the pain to go away didn't come true even when Quinn was given the ice pack from Deacon to put on her sweaty forehead. When he placed it, her head was throbbing more than before. She pushed it away immediately on approach.

Quinn frowned at the poor girl. "Geez, Deac, what did you do to her?"

Deacon darted up from the couch. "Fuck what you just said and help the damn girl."

"I'm trying, but she says it hurts more with an ice pack."

She twisted in her seat, still with her face shield away from Deacon. He bit his lower half lip musing to himself. _Did I hurt her that badly? I didn't mean to __—__ what am I saying?_

"Put her in my room and I'll check up on her later — if she's alive then." He hissed and ordered Quinn to do as he said.

Quinn nodded, walking over to the front end of the couch and scooped Chanel up in his arms; her head jolted back along with her arms dangling from the side. Her eyes were sealed shut, and her breathing went dim. After, the door which opened up to Deacon's room was shut silently against the pale walls.

Deacon leaned back with a moan. "What the fuck is wrong with me?"

"I wonder the same." Mercury added.

He glared back. "I didn't need your compliment."

Her shoulders relaxed when she sighed. "It's too much of a conspiracy."

"_What_?"

"This whole problem — you're not the same as you used to be."

"You mean me being an asshole?"

She grimaced. "Yeah, but also the influence talent you got."

His eyebrows lowered, confusion struck his face. "You don't think that was manipulative?"

"The girl you're saying?"

"Yes."

"I'll take that as a _yes_ by the looks on your face." She mumbled.

He rose up again as he rubbed his forehead. "Let me get back into my daily routine and I'll be fine." He got up from the couch and stripped off his button down shirt in replacement of a Harley Davidson t-shirt. His trousers were wrinkled and creased from their recent expedition, dirt and grime clung on to the cuffs of his pants and came off when he moved.

Mercury maneuvered to his side and picked up the wrinkled shirt, wrapping it in her arms. "Now, how will we treat her?"

He grinned. "As we did before, make her feel welcome, but understand we're the ones in control."

Her smile turned villainous. "This will be fun."

"You bet so," he laughed. "It'll be easy getting that USB from her."

Her eyes looked questionable. "Why not just snatch it by searching her as they do at secure places."

"She'll be a pain." He mentioned. "And beside, it'll be harder to get."

"Not with me." She said.

"You'll fucking kill her instead. Treat her a bit nicely than you did last time."

"I treated her as nice as possible, but I don't want this phoniness to continue on especially when I'm not interested."

He sighed. "You're a pain in the ass — I'll do it then."

Quinn had emerged from behind the door by then; Deacon stomped over and avoided contact with him by brushing by with a straight face and afterward, he shut the door behind him quietly. His room was silent unlike the living room uproar, the walls plain in color of a shade of gray; the black satin covers on his bed were imperfect from Chanel's posture, cuddled up in a ball form with her head between her knees.

Deacon smiled from the view, and knew one deed was one, thus it was shaking Chanel in fear of his manipulative talent.

Her face was muddled, covered in drying black tears on her flushed out cheeks. Her brunette hair was spread out into a pool of hair on his pillow, tangled and knotted. The sight of this was different from what he seen of her before. As he approached the bed leisurely, her posture stiffened.

_She looks like a mess_, he mused. Of course, with his mind not in the right place, he couldn't determine whether it was good or not. He sat down carefully on the mattress and sunk in as he looked upon Chanel's muddled face.

"How are you feeling now?" He asked her.

Her head moved an inch and her mouth appeared as she removed her hands from her face. "Better than before."

_Fuck me_, he mused again but this time harshly to himself. _I'm acting like a childish jerk __—__ the _good_ jerk._

"You're a mess. Why don't you clean yourself up?" He mumbled.

Her face perplexed.

"Yes," he sighed, "a shower exists in this place."

"Didn't think so for a moment." She grumbled.

"I'll find something for you to wear in this place — you're clothes look as if they were dragged from hell."

He is right, Chanel wondered, when she glanced down at her old clothing. "I guess so then."

He got up from the sunken bed and showed her the bathroom across the room; he opened the door for her, revealing a dark blue tiled bathroom with a white shower curtain in place and toiletries placed on the toilet top. Two clean white towels hung on the towel rack next to the tub shower, and the sink was shinny clean.

Deacon exited while asking Chanel, "What size do you wear?"

She spun around from his reply. "I'm a medium."

He nodded. "All right." The door shut afterward.

Chanel frowned and started to undress, when then the door opened again and Deacon stood still with a new pile of clothes in his arms.

_Awkward_, he mused.

Chanel winced and threw on her top again although her bra was clearly seen through her shirt.

"Sorry," he said, and he tossed the clothes at her. "I didn't know you were changing."

"_Yeah_," she sighed, still holding onto her bra revealing shirt.

Deacon nodded. "Yeah." And he shut the door after from embarrassment. _Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me for having no manners…_

He covered his face with the palm of his hand, and his ears perked up when he heard a beeping noise. Yet, although he was able to decode which phone was whose in the penthouse, he knew whose phone it was ringing at the moment. On the bed where Chanel was curled up before, a phone was vibrating and the lights were flashing on and off, a familiar ring tone to the one he heard a while back.

_Why didn't she use her phone when she contracted the department?_ He wondered. Was it secrecy? It was odd how Chanel had used the payphone to call to her department when her phone was working fine anyhow. There had to be a reason…

He walked over to the beeping phone and picked it up from the silk sheets, and examined the number flashing on the tiny screen.

_Joseph_.

"I swear, if this phone has a tracking device, I'm screwed." He said to himself.

He answered it, and a male's voice was heard through the phone.

"Whoa," the man said, noting the difference in tone. "Where's Chanel?"

Deacon grinned. "Chanel is quite busy at the moment," Deacon said. "Can I take a message though?"

The man paused for a long moment. "Deacon?"

"Long time no see, Joseph?"

"What happened?"

"Who the fuck would know?" He replied with a smile. "Did some _prophecy_ decide it was my time to be resurrected?"

Joseph groaned from the other end of the line. "I hope you're not speaking of the prophecy I know is bad."

"Gee, as if I _didn't _know. Why don't you ask Blade?"

The phone went dead all of a sudden, and a new voice was heard. It was Blade, and Deacon was impressed.

"What is it, Frost?"

"Blade, nice to hear from you again—"

"Which prophecy?" He asked unsympathetically.

Deacon snorted. "The one you let off — the one in which all dead vampires come back."

Blade groaned from hearing of it before.

"I know," Deacon added to his quiet response. "Isn't it a surprise how quickly you screw things up? I should have taught you before you let the cat out of the bag."

Blade roared into the phone as Deacon cringed away from it. "I am going to kill you by the time I get there."

"Good luck then. Does this mean the war is about to begin?"

"It already has."

Deacon smacked his lips together. _Idiot_. "Indeed, it has begin." He flexed his fingers out while he continued to talk to him. "We'll be sure you are out of our way and exonerate you while I…" He looked back at the bathroom door. "..Play with my new toy I found on the streets today."

Blade grumbled. "Chanel."

"It was a chase to find her when she got loose."

"She did? When?"

"Last night — she thinks she knows her ways around vampires, but she doesn't see the risk ahead."

"You place one finger on her and I'll be sure I shoot your head off."

Deacon frowned and his eyes went dark. "First of all, you don't know where the fuck I am."

"You're in Concord." Blade answered.

Deacon nodded, amused by how stupid Blade was. "You _are_ stupid. We _were_ there."

He heard Blade cuss under his breath. What a pleasure it was to hear him know he was at his faults. "And secondly," Deacon continued. "You're facing someone who may be a lot stronger than before." His hint had to hurt Blade all over, but somehow it didn't.

"I doubt so." Blade replied.

"Well then, I hope you enjoy this battle between the odds." He let loose of his grip and pushed the phone's _off_ button. All at once, the phone went flying at the gray wall; it shattered on impact and landed on the floor with a _thunk_.

Deacon had heard the shower turn off before he had thrown the phone against the wall; as he turned around on the balls of his feet he saw Chanel standing at the open doorway of the bathroom with fresh new clothes on, an appearance of utter shock along with her eyes flashing at the dissembled phone.

"Did you have phone problems?" She wondered as she tightened her pants to a nice fit.

He frowned at her. "You can say I did." The frown disappeared and transformed into a devilish grin, he approached her slowly with his arms relaxed to his sides.

Chanel started to wince away from his approach. _What is wrong with this man?_

Deacon continued with his talk. "Along with the fact that your boyfriend and Blade are heading into the wrong direction and now proclaim war."

Chanel grinned. "They might as well proclaim war."

He frowned again. "You shouldn't have said that. Do you realize what I'm made for?"

"I can guess, but I'm not going to."

"That is fine," he said with his shoulders relaxed. He smirked a little. "I can answer it for you." He hovered around her as she moved out from the doorway. "I'm made to get girls like you to like me."

"I'd doubt it will ever happen." She grimaced.

He chuckled. "Between you and me, it's something I can get no matter how a woman despises someone."

"What am I? A freaking trophy for your winning?"

"For now and until I get rid of Blade, yes."

"Then don't hope for me as a welcoming guest."

He smirked again. "I wasn't aiming to do so." He said.

He grabbed her wrists tightly as she winced away from his painful grasp. She felt a pair of cold handcuffs clinging to her wrist again, which was a moment she wasn't enthralled to go through all over again. Deacon spun her around to face him face to face.

"I expect _more_ from you for the time being until this war is over." His hand shoved Chanel further away from him, and Chanel topped over landing on the floor with her knees bucking together. He smiled. His hands slid onto his right pocket, and he pulled out something silver in color, but had the appearance of a camera. _What is he doing?_ Chanel wondered.

"I believe if we give Blade a direct message as to what is happening, he will understand our proposition." He explained further into his reason. "For some reason the boy doesn't get how stupid he is. I would never let my _son_ be that way, but turns out it happens at the wrong time at the wrong places."

Her face scrutinized at him. "I don't get what you're telling me."

"I didn't think so." He said.

Chanel realized she hadn't notice from the time being he had pulled out the camera it was on, recording each and every moment of their conversation about Blade. The light on the camera flashed, causing Chanel to blink. "How will this message be proposed as?"

"What?" Deacon asked baffled.

"In the cases I do with video interrogation, it usually has a direct message as to propose the problem."

He shook his head slightly. "I don't get you and your police like talk."

"You should," she advised. "Haven't you been through interrogating in your lifetime?"

Again, he shook his head. "Never have been." He walked up to her and tossed her head back with his cold hand. "And never will." He started to speak into the camera as though it were his best friend doing the criminal act. "Blade doesn't foresee the problem he will face once I start to have fun with you."

Her lips fumbled to make works come out as she remained perfectly calm. "What will you do?"

He answered her in his polite tone, the one which usually turns to woman on. "I'll just have fun with you around — maybe in terms of making Blade pissed off and fierce." His thumb pressed again the surface of her skin and he caressed it by removing the dry salty tears originally clung to her skin. "Why would someone like you, so beautiful, be stuck in this fucking mess? Why the innocent?" He backed away a few inches from her face. "Nobody gives a damn who is in a mess or not."

Chanel mumbled. "Some do though — people like me don't want the innocent harmed."

"Well, you're an agent…" he stopped himself to think. "Or whatever you might be in the police world."

"An investigator." Chanel answered for him.

He groaned. "Okay, _investigator_." For a second time he stopped himself to think. "You're not a cop, though, so why do you care?"

She shrugged her shoulders. "I do."

"You are strange." He quoted. His fingers pressed her cheek again; his index fingernail suddenly grew in sight of Chanel's view, and it then cut through her flesh. Her eyes broadened when she saw her own blood on his white finger. "But you aren't strange enough like me." The blood once on his finger was now in the mouth of a monster.

She cringed as he licked his lips and smacked them together; they changed into a rose like color after he devoured his snack.

He held the camera closer to her face and asked her, "Can you top that strangeness?"

She shook her head. "I think you have already."

"Nay," he said. "I think the credit goes to Blade."

"How is Blade strange?"

He was happy enough to answer her question. "Why must I wonder would someone kill their own kind?"

Chanel again shrugged her shoulders at his question. "Maybe to get rid of people like you."

Deacon's expression changed from her answer, and it wasn't a pleasant change. His hand flashed out and it grabbed Chanel's throat; her eyes twitched when his face got closer and his clamp got tighter, soon enough it was hard for her to breathe. She gasped for air.

"I see we will have trouble." He mumbled.

"Well," she gasped, "isn't it what he's trying to do?"

His grasp grew tighter. "Yes, but you reminding me is getting on my nerves." He glared at her intensely. "So is Joseph."

"What does Josef have against you?"

"He's hunting me down."

"Good for him then! You deserve whatever punishment the group has for you."

Deacon grinded on his teeth as he threw aside Chanel and dug his knee on her chest, by pinning her down it was his way to frighten her how strong he was then she had originally thought. She started to fidget, exactly what he wanted. "This is what I want Blade to see." He hissed. "I want him to see what happens when you and the others mess with me." Chanel had saw the same hand which grabbed her by the throat land directly in her face and he pushed her down so the camera could see his pinpoint: her neck.

His chin caressed her exposed neck and whispered into her ear. "If any of you mess with me, you'll never see the god damn day again. Do you get the message, pumpkin?"

She shook her head.

"Good." He said. The camera lifted away from her neck and now was facing directly at Deacon before he shut it off. "We are going to have _loads_ of fun." He said sarcastically, and then the camera light went off. So did Chanel's calm attitude.

"You are an idiot." She mumbled.

"And you're my pet. Get used to it." He hissed. He tossed the camera about while pondering to himself. "What shall we do next?" He asked himself, although the question was meant for Chanel.

Chanel's eyes widened in disgust. "Nothing disturbing, please." She snorted.

Deacon grinned while teasing her. "I _like_ disturbing things."


End file.
